


The Dark Fire Will Avail You

by Vulgarweed



Series: Their Terrible Sharpness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bang a Balrog (Get It On), Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crossover, Dark Fuck Prince Running Loose in Middle-earth, Dom Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Dubious Tolkienian Linguistic Discipline, Edging, Elemental Magic, Elemental Whip Magic, Even More Dubious Tolkienian Theology, Impact Play, Interspecies, Johnlock Roulette, Kinslaying, M/M, Mild Cock & Ball Torture, More Shapeshifting, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Outdoor Sex, Painplay, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sensation Play, Shapeshifting, Stone Bondage, Sub Everybody Else, Temperature Play, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed.” - Sherlock Holmes, <i>The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,</i> Arthur Conan Doyle</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3961888">With Both Hands Thou Shalt Give It</a>. After Melkor murdered Finwë and stole the Silmarils, fleeing to the lands across the sea, Fëanor, the Silmarils’ maker, led an army in hot pursuit to avenge his father and reclaim his treasure, swearing an oath that would doom them all. And the Fëanorians were followed by the eccentric, brilliant, and fearlessly kinky Maia detective called Sérelókë, who can always be trusted to stick his nose (and other parts) into the meat of any fascinating and dangerous crime. In Beleriand, he will find a rich playground for <i>all</i> his passions, and meet a companion who will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath Prologue: The Tale of the Journey to the East

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> The prologue takes place after the main events of the story, but it details events that happened before.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my betas [Jinglebell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/pseuds/jinglebell) and [Winter_of_our_Discontent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent), who keep me right with brilliant whips of fire and ice. It hurts so good. Also massive thanks to all the regulars at [Antidiogenes](http://antidiogenes.tumblr.com/), who have been cheerleading and nit-picking and inspiring me for months.
> 
> And thanks to all my readers who wanted more of Sérelókë's adventures - this is not the last you'll hear of him, either.
> 
> UPDATE Jan 26, 2017: Now with SCORCHING HOT (NSFW) fanart by Senorakitty, of Iaun in all his glory. Linked at the end of Chapter 9.
> 
> NOW COMPLETE. The tale grew in the telling, as the Professor would say. Sometimes you just gotta fuck that Balrog, as the Professor would never say.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a time and place of safety after the Battle Under the Stars (and the main events of this story) Sérelókë tells the tale of how he came to cross the sea to Beleriand. He will take his sweet time - he has a captive audience.

“How are your hands, Iaun? Still flexing fine?” Only Sérelókë’s voice could make a simple question so heavy with charged desire. Iaun shivered as Sérelókë ran two long fingers up the inside of his wrist to his palm, ticklish, promising.

The moon was a slender, pale curve in the sky through the trees. It would take some getting used to - both the brightness, painful at first after long ages under the stars alone, and the changes of shape, the waxing and waning and wandering. But his light was gentler and more subtle than the golden fire of the sun, and so Iaun preferred his time of dominion to come out to the forests of Doriath with his companion - and enjoy to the fullest his arts of pain and pleasure.

Iaun was a Silvan Elf of the people of Lenwë, fair of hair and dark blue of eye, slightly small of stature among that people and even more so among the Noldor and Vanyar - he’d certainly never thought to attract the notice of anyone with the light of Valinor in his eye, much less a Maia like Sérelókë. Sérelókë wore a body that blended in among the Eldar - though he still drew notice with his changeable eyes and the odd curls and waves in his loam-dark hair - and rarely let Iaun forget that he had made it himself and could change it at will. Sérelókë was fierce and cunning and wild in his wisdom - and proud, and stubborn, and sometimes utterly insufferable. Yet when his attention shone upon Iaun and he smiled, Iaun felt as he did the first night he saw the moon - indeed, the two were now rather linked in his mind.

So lying bound between two sentinel trees in the ancient forest, protected by Melian’s Girdle and Sérelókë’s alertness, Iaun at last felt safe, at last had come to understand that in this land, as long as the Queen’s will held, there were no hazards for him worse than the exquisite pains his partner gave him, no prying eyes more dangerous than the occasional tree-climbing princess (and they had gone well out of their way to avoid the glades she favoured).

In fact, it felt wonderful to be so helpless, so nearly naked and stretched out splayed-limbed on a bed of elaborately knotted cords that held and cradled him, surrounding and binding him at every joint. The bright moon’s light glinted on the blade of a knife Iaun had insisted Sérelókë keep close to hand in case he needed to be cut loose quickly - and that in itself was a sign of trust that Iaun felt keenly - heady and light and free as small thrills of fear sped through him and vanished harmlessly in his pounding heart.

“Fine, completely fine,” Iaun said happily, for indeed, Sérelókë had certainly learned swiftly by watching how Iaun cleverly strung hammocks of the smooth, resilient rope of Elven make. Trust the Maia’s singularly brilliant mind to apply that knowledge to more specialized and esoteric applications. This was now one of Iaun’s favourite uses of rope - such immobilization, and such security at once. He had rarely felt so content. “So go on, keep telling me your tale, of what brought you out of the bliss of Valinor to this place.”  
“Tedium,” Sérelókë sighed, his hand hovering just over Iaun’s chest, not touching. “Unspeakable, unchanging ages of tedium. And then - the tedium broke.”

“Tell me of it. Because of Fëanor -” Iaun said, carefully. “And Ungoliant - really? No, do not speak of that now. How did you come here?”

“Very well, I shall tell you. When Fëanor’s father Finwë was murdered and the Silmarils taken, I would not rest until I had had my own chance to examine the bloody scene at Formenos.

“'There’s no mystery here for me,' I thought with some disappointment. Melkor had all but signed his work. Much evidence had been trampled and removed, of course, and the scene of the slaying was compromised beyond recall - and yet the pale, unmoving, hewn-open body of Finwë still had things to tell me though it could no longer speak.

“Finwë had been taken by surprise - he had deemed perhaps that his son had returned from the feast. Who else would approach so near without introducing themselves until it was far too late? Yet he was armed, and had attempted to defend himself - and would have succeeded against a less dreadful foe - so he clearly had thought that attack from some corner was likely. Why else keep a blade close to hand in one’s own home? Such fear and distrust had not always been in Finwë’s nature - not until his eldest son had given himself over to such pride and rage. Fëanor had not hesitated to draw sword upon his own half-brother, after all. Though he had seemed to accept the rebuke of the Valar, one who threatens close kin once might well do so again. Did the King of the Noldor fear his own son? Or did he share Fëanor’s all-consuming dread that the treasures of his hand were a shimmering beacon for thieves?”

Iaun wriggled in his bonds, for he had been reminded again that, while of course Maiar did need to breathe air when clad in flesh, Sérelókë seemed to take that as a suggestion he could sometimes reject. Certainly he would not suspend his speech for breath's sake if he did not need to.

“Fëanor could not be the culprit. His alibi was unshakeable. Even I had to admit that he would not kill his own father. Finwë was mighty in his own right, and only a very powerful being could have overcome him so quickly. In this matter, at least, the conventional wisdom was almost certainly correct, as little as I liked to admit it.”

Sérelókë sighed and clenched a fist in frustration. “If only I could have asked Finwë what he had seen. It should be possible, Iaun. The Halls of Waiting are _right there.”_

“Did you ask Mandos, then?

“‘Certainly I did, and he said, ‘My gates are barred to you until your own death brings you here,’ he said. Hardly a nice thing to say to a fellow Ainu - I’m of lesser stature, certainly, but every bit as immortal as he is.”

Iaun tried not to chuckle too hard, for a loop around his belly chafed when he did so, and Sérelókë might not be as amused.

“The motive too was clear. Fëanor and his sons weren’t just master craftsmen, they were treasure hoarders of shameless dedication, and their trove was the greatest in Aman. Still, the taking of the lesser gems was probably no more than a cover, or perhaps a bribe to a greedy accomplice. I could find nothing to counter the belief that the true object was always the Silmarils, the last relic of the lights of the newly-slain Trees Laurelin and Telperion, and the greatest work that the Eldar’s finest craftsman ever had or would fashion. I must admit, I had thought Fëanor’s obsession with their safety to be overwrought, yet it is true they have a deadly virtue in them that overrides the thoughts of rational beings all too easily. Even Fëanor was almost rational once.”

Iaun thought he perceived a strand of sorrow in Sérelókë’s voice, or at least a certain frustration that the world’s ways oft bended in a direction that seemed so clearly counter to wisdom.

“If only he had given up the Silmarils when Yavanna pleaded for them, the last hope to restore life to the Trees. If only he hadn’t refused to wear them to the feast, to deny everyone but his own family the sight of them, then he never would have been in that position. He might dwell there still, still have them in his hand, and his father alive. Yet the Hallowing of the jewels by Manwë and Varda seemed to have done nothing but make them all the more of a focus for idiotic behavior.

“What was the point of even taking such useless observations as these to anyone? I thought. I’m certain you’ll be looking for a being with burned hands... No, that wouldn’t do. The robber was certainly whom everyone believed it to be. The interest, for me at least, was not in the crime that had already occurred, dreadful as it was, but in the crimes to come. The terrible oath Fëanor had sworn, partaken by all his kin, would ensure it. And wherever that deadly trail might lead, I felt bound to follow.”

“You are like a great, brilliant hound,” Iaun said. “There is no scent you cannot and will not follow, is that not true?”

Sérelókë chuckled softly. “And yet there is one scent in particular that always brings me round.” His hand passed down Iaun’s lower belly, fingernails dragging with the lightest of stings.

“Persistent and cruel you are, now more like a cat with a mouse than a hound,” Iaun said. “You will give me no satisfaction until you’re done with your tale, is that your game?”

“You know my methods, Iaun,” Sérelókë said with a slow, seeping grin, giving Iaun’s nipple a light three-fingered slap. “Flex your feet for me, let me see them move smoothly.”

“All is well there,” Iaun said. Sérelókë tested them with a tickle to see them jerk, pink-flushed and responsive. Only then did he settle back into his talking pose to continue, hands drawn back to his chest and pressed together as he found again the thread of his tale. There were other places on Iaun’s body that were in far greater crisis than his feet, but Sérelókë would not deign to relieve his sharpest suffering until he was good and ready.

 

“Long and deadly would that journey be, I knew as I listened to Fëanor’s rash but stirring speech. If I were slightly more foolish, I could have been swept up in it myself; it was so cunningly and swiftly devised - though I suspected he may have held some phrases in reserve for just such an occasion. I said nothing to them, of course, for I swiftly perceived it would serve no purpose - My voice was as nothing to Manwë’s, after all, and even the second-mightiest among the Valar had already been told where he could stick it. Fëanor was committed to his mad path of vengeance against the first-greatest. Nor could anyone have been heard over the din of prideful shouting as Fëanor’s sons and relatives and hangers-on fell all over themselves to try to be the leader in rash, arrogant, foolhardy commitment. But I was enthralled anew -- I saw that my pursuit would take me across the sea and into the Eastern lands I had never seen. Perilous the journey might be, but I would gain new knowledge at every turn, and for me, there can be no greater enticement.”

“Never?” Iaun said with a lick of his lips. “Never any greater enticement?”

Sérelókë laughed, low and promising. “Carnal knowledge is its own reward. And its own form of very worthwhile learning and lore.”

“But you still have not told me why you thought Fëanor needed your pursuit,” Iaun said, hoping to move the story further along to its climax, which might eventually bring Sérelókë’s attention around to a climax of a different sort for his listener.

“Listening to what Fëanor demanded of his friends and kin, it was just as well that justice was not my primary motive,” Sérelókë said. “It was not Fëanor’s either, no matter what he might wish to claim.

“I needed to stay with them, close enough to bear witness, but not to be seen, at least in such a way that they would take notice of me. As you have seen, Iaun, the form I wear is not a true hröa like yours - it is a fána, shaped by my own mind to clothe my spirit. It can take many shapes, and I need not wear one at all. So to follow Fëanor’s horde, I took on the shape of one of the quiet Eldar who hung back in doubt. When we reached the Teleri city on the eastern shore, my dread began to grow. Fëanor did not ask his kin for help crossing the sea, he did not make a request - he made harsh demands for the ships, as though they were his due and the Teleri were beneath him and bound to obey. And I could see in their faces that the Teleri would not give them. And why should they, Feanáro?, I thought. You did not yield your own treasure in the time of another’s need. You all but accused the Valar of thievery. I confess, my anger may have been roused most for Yavanna’s sake, for she was ever kind to me and her spouse Aulë generous with his lore. Simply speaking ill to the other Valar, well, that has never troubled me much.”

 

“As I had observed, woe betide anyone who stood between the new King of the Noldor and his grief and his rage and his madness, all wrought together as one wild force that even the Valar themselves had declined to withstand. It was not my place to put myself there.

“I adopted the form of one of the Teleri, feigning at death in the cold seas as the terrible battle began. In the domain of Ulmo, I fashioned myself a shape better suited for the waters: Eldar from the waist up I remained, but I gave myself a mighty tail with long sweeping fins, powerful for swimming, where my legs had been. Uinen often wore a similar shape to converse with the Teleri, and they held her in great reverence. I could see its practical advantages.”

“Ah, brilliant,” Iaun said longingly. “I wish I had been able to see that. You must have been stunning. Not that you are not always so.”

Sérelókë smiled and looked away for the beat of a glance - Iaun already knew he did not always want that sweet flush of his to be seen when Iaun praised his cleverness; he had a sincere weakness for praise of that sort.

“In this shape I watched from the shelter of the waves, missing none of the cries of the wounded and dying, the terrible sprays of blood and the dreadful contortions of maimed limbs and ruined faces - and the horror in the eyes of the late-coming hosts who rushed to Fëanor’s aid with little thought, even as they hewed the bodies of friends and kin and covered the silver quays and white sands of Alqualondë in blood.

“I shivered in the void-dark sea as I swam, desperate never to lose sight of those ships no matter how perilous the seas they sailed. Fëanor had caused what even Melkor did not dare: a wanton slaughter of Ilúvatar’s Children on the very shores of Aman. Ossë and Ulmo were constrained not to aid me in my pursuit, but they also hindered me not, and Uinen gave me safe passage through the mighty storm of her rage.

“Those seas were so cold, Iaun, and the chill set into my very fëa as I pursued the swift white ships towards the cold northern realms of grinding ice. It was not a matter of the ice alone, nor the cold waters, nor the wailing winds of the harsh region that separated the lands. So far as I knew, none had dared to make the crossing at this place except Melkor himself, and he had been hard put to it, pursued by Ungoliant. She is a formidable enemy, I know that well.” He allowed himself a little smile, remembering the role that he himself might have played in arousing her wrath. “She would have been even hungrier than was her wont, I think.”

Iaun had often tried not to think too much of that dreadful encounter, for sometimes Sérelókë’s daring and his particular appetites lead him to dangerous and appalling acts indeed, where even Iaun could not follow. Uneasily now, Iaun tugged at the intricate knots and weaves of ropes that held him bound very securely with no strain upon him. The thought came to him that perhaps Sérelókë had learned something of webbing not from Iaun’s own rope-craft, but from a far greater natural mistress of the art.

“These warriors were no skillful sailors as the Teleri had been, so it was perilous for Fëanor’s men to keep the graceful white swan-boats as near to the coast as they dared. Fëanor wished to stay as close as possible to those of his forces who marched alongside on land. To ensure their safety? Or their loyalty? Oath aside, surely all now knew that bonds of kinship and friendship were no longer a reliable guard against treachery.

“Therefore, in the cold and unpopulated Guarded Realm, the ships were close enough to the bare peaked rocks of the shoreline that all aboard might perceive a dark hooded figure who stood upon a promontory, radiating grim purpose. And then Mandos - for it was he, for all that there are those who question it - spoke words that carried across the width of the sea, though he seemed to raise his voice not at all.

“The words he spoke would set dread in the hearts of any who had yet the wisdom to heed them. That amounted to about half of Fëanor's company. Even in this frigid palace of stone and isolation, the half in the lead were still kept warm enough by their oath to listen to their doom proclaimed with staunch defiance. I remember all the words he spoke, missing not a one, Iaun. They are burned into my mind as though he spoke them to me, though rationally I know I do not partake of this doom. For they are words meant to be remembered, and all who heard them shall do so, until the remaking of the world:

 

_Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. ..._

 

Iaun gave a shiver in his bonds, and was glad to have a caress of Sérelókë’s warm hand on his thigh. The words’ deeper meanings sank into him, their dreadful, all-encompassing inevitability. “Terrible,” he muttered. “I could almost feel sorry for them, had they not recklessly slain my distant kin over boats.”

“Had Fëanor not committed that act, he would still be foolish and dangerous, but he would not have put himself beyond the realm of hope,” Sérelókë said. “He was remarkable. He fathered seven sons, he gave them all his ferocity and fortitude if not his genius, and still had enough left over for himself to make rude gestures at the Valar, doom himself to perdition, and be so energetic about it. It gave me new respect for Nerdanel, if nothing else, putting up with that for so long. It wasn't as though Fëanor did the real work in making seven sons, after all.”

Iaun laughed. “Yes, credit where credit is due. Now go on. Finish telling me how you arrived here, and then I would love to have you work as though you were trying to beget seven sons upon me.”

“That is - not a terribly enticing way of phrasing it, Iaun,” Sérelókë said, choking for a moment on laughter. “Very well. My form grew weary and the cold slowed my progress, so I changed to an even more malleable shape, the form of a frozen mist, and there I hovered as the ships came to a stop and the gathered hosts grew, deciding their next path. Fëanor himself showed his face over the railing of the greatest ship as he looked north to the ice, and west to his gathering followers, and east to the land where he must march, to victory or destruction, for Valinor was closed to him now.

“You cannot turn back, I thought. But it is not too late for some who follow you. If you were not completely mad, you would at least give some of them a chance to turn back with honour. Yet of course a floating mist is not heeded by those who have lost all wisdom. If it says what the listener does not want to hear, it may as well not have spoken at all.

“It was not within my nature to turn back either. I was under no curse and bound by no oath, but my curiosity was a force upon me as great as Fëanor’s rage. Although Fëanor’s path seemed all too clear to me, I thought that beyond the visible weavings of Vairë there might yet be mysteries and surprises in the new land to the east that I had never yet seen with my own eyes.

“And I watched the horror deepen and the betrayal worsen: I heard the angry curses of those left behind as Fëanor and his sons took the swift ships alone and left their friends and allies wailing on the frozen shores. Surely some among them must suspect that once treachery held sway, it would never miss an opportunity to manifest.

“Surely some among them must not have been taken by complete surprise when the first red flowers of flame breached the horizon on the other side.

“The sight of the lovely ships framed in flame and collapsing upon themselves held my gaze, and long I watched them burn in awe. For just a moment, I froze in the air and nearly congealed. A strange sensation wracked me then, Iaun, and I barely knew its name. Now, I believe I would have to call it sympathy, for I was witnessing a fatal twisting in a brilliant mind - Fëanor had denied the Teleri the same understanding he had pleaded for himself earlier. “Such treasures that it is given to one to make once, and once only,” he’d said, explaining why he could not give up the Silmarils to save the Trees. Such treasures the white swan ships of the Teleri were also - the world would not see their like again, and so ruthlessly Fëanor destroyed them, as if they were his own castoff toys. It would not make him repent of his pride. If he ever even thought of it, it would only enrage him further, drive him on harder in his maddened rush to oblivion.

“I could not have prevented that even if I wished to. Fates were in motion now far beyond my measure. What I could do was abandon all pretense to encumbering flesh, and speed my way as fast as my spirit could fly, eastward into the lands of Middle-earth where the forgotten ones dwelt, to learn the lay of their land, before the oncoming storm changed it forever. As dim fingers of fog I reached forward, swift-traveling ahead of the storm-wind from the west till the starlit land opened beneath me, and I descended through the trees like silver dew. Swift as the deer of Nessa’s kin I ran until the dwellings of Ilúvatar’s children, those who had never crossed the sea, began to surround me.

“I landed in a cool, mountainous land that kept a careful watch on the dreadful marches and mountains to the north. Hithlum; I know its name now. Against the twilight sky full of Varda’s faint lamps, I could see a dull reddish glow over rocky peaks to the North, and as I reshaped myself, my senses perceived a smell of burning. As I became more solid in my most accustomed shape, the stench and smoke and gases stung my nose and made my chest ache, and I knew Melkor’s hordes had not been idle.

“The Valar had smashed his first stronghold of Utumno, but, as was to be expected, had botched the job and left the greater part of Melkor’s forces to rebuild in his absence. I was near his second fortress of Angband, farther west and far more daring. Now I perceived Melkor’s strength was much greater than before his captivity, and likely better it would be had the Valar left Melkor here to his own dark devices and never brought him back to Valinor at all. Well, better for all except the people of this land, of course, and I am sorry, Iaun.”

“You’re not the one who should be sorry, Sérelókë,” Iaun said quietly. “Except for the ache of my staff and stones, which you have kept waiting far too long.”

“Ah, for that I am not sorry,” Sérelókë said. “Do you compare that to the long suffering of your people beneath Melkor’s hand, truly? You are welcome to try him, see if he will be more generous with your pleasure.”

“I’ll take my chances with you, if you please,” Iaun said, twisting his wrists, for now he enjoyed the sensation of the gentle chafe. “You are mad, and often filled to the brim with yourself, but I could have done much worse.”

“You know the rules, Iaun. I shall finish answering your questions fully. Your interruptions only prolong your torment.”

“As fey and determined as Fëanor might be, he could now only move at marching speed, and that with all his companions weary with grief and toil. From my vantage point on a starlit peak, I could see the land all around him. To the north, as noted, the fire and stench of Melkor’s works and his servants - some of whom were Maiar, like myself. Fëanor could have little hope of victory in open warfare. To the west, the road to the Sea where Fëanor would come marching. To the east, lands uncharted, beckoning. To be explored later. To the south, valleys and yet more mountains, and a strange sense of light and power that tugged at his senses. One of my own kind dwelt there also, but one utterly unlike those who had allied with the Darkness.

“Melian it was, who loved the land and the wild things and was wont to wander this unknown country alone to learn its ways. Some might say she captured a wild thing of her own, when she took an Elf-chieftain to husband.”

Sérelókë gave Iaun a lusty look then, caressed his own lips with darting tongue, and ran long fingers through his own hair. Iaun writhed and bared his teeth. “Indeed,” Iaun said. “It was good to know from their tale that my kind can lie with yours and survive it, as Thingol must, for it is not said that they found the princess Lúthien in a cabbage patch. Having witnessed only your performance in the Battle Under the Stars, I might have doubted that.”

Sérelókë’s eyes flared up in wild light and then darkened, calming. “For all the suffering you beg from me, you should at least know I am careful not to _harm_ you.”

“You are,” Iaun said gently, testing his tethers again. They held firm but did not hurt. “Sometimes I think too much so.”

“That is a matter for another time, Iaun. I doubt you would wish me to postpone your release yet further while we reconsider our terms.”

“As always, you read me right,” Iaun said. “Please go on with your story. Of course you will, whether I wish it or not.”

“I knew that the realm they had made was protected by her power, so that was the one place Fëanor and his followers would be certain not to go, for they did not flee Melkor, they pursued him. Foolhardy and foolish, but there was now no holding back that tide. And in Melian’s realm they would find little welcome. She would not think kindly of those who brought war to her borders and gave Melkor’s forces an even greater prize to seek there.

“In my mind I traced the paths they would be likeliest to take: the most direct route to Melkor’s fortress, skirting the mountains and passing close enough to Doriath that whispers of their passing would be known. And when they reached the great mountain gates of Thangorodrim, the land entire would hear the sound of their battle. Did Fëanor believe that Melkor was alone there? Did he believe that the fortress and its hordes of twisted creatures had been idle in their master’s absence? Had he any idea that such legions and their deadly war devices even existed? Irrelevant. It would not have stopped him.

“And Melkor would not stay still and wait for them to come to him; he would send his forces forth through the lands they already held by wholesale slaughter not too long ago. I thought it most likely fate would tangle them north of the Fens of Serech, on the hostile Dor Daedeloth plain.

“Before the inevitable, I thought it best to learn what I could lie of this land - its mountains and meadows, its forests and rivers. I wished to see the inland sea, where the Children of Ilúvatar first awakened at Cuiviénen on the eastern shore; I wished to see all the lands of those who had not crossed the sea on the floating island, to see what they had built without too much of the guidance of the Ainur, what they had made of forest and cave and wilderness. But that would have to wait for a calmer time.

“I decided to start with the lands nearest Melian’s realm and move north then, for her resonance would draw some creatures to her, and repel others; I could learn as much by observing the nature of those barred by her power as by observing those admitted, and perhaps I would have time for a more pleasant scenic tour later.

"Beyond the certain risks, there might also be pleasures to find, on the other side of them. What they might be, I could not imagine, and those gaps in my imagination thrilled me.”

“And are you pleased with what you have learned here so far?” Iaun asked, with a small roll of his hips that he hoped would catch Sérelókë’s blade-sharp gaze. It was successful, for Sérelókë left his perch by their little campfire and stalked over, climbing into the rope-nest between Iaun’s held-open thighs. His weight made the ropes tug and stretch over Iaun’s skin as his large, fire-warmed hands made sweeping and possessive strokes up his legs and around his hips.

“Oh yes,” Sérelókë said, in a voice that sank into Iaun down to sinew and bone, heating his blood, rousing him further. “Very pleased. I am especially drawn to study the lore of you, the music you make when I play upon you . . . “

“Until you weary of me, when you know all my mysteries,” Iaun said with a smile, desire warming him head to toe and pooling at his center as Sérelókë crept over him, bending his dark head to taste.

“I think I shall take my sweet time, and I do not expect I shall ever get there,” Sérelókë murmured into the skin that longed for him, soothing Iaun's need with biting kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sérelókë's memory is accurate: the Doom of Mandos, beginning "tears unnumbered ye shall shed..." is quoted verbatim from _The Silmarillion_
> 
> The title is an inversion of something another Maia will say to another Balrog thousands of years from now.


	2. Elen Sila Lúmenn´ Omentielvo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A star shines on the hour of their meeting.

**One month earlier . . .**

 

Iaun knew that, for all its distance from Angband, this place could not be considered precisely safe. Time passed strangely in these forest-lands that limned the border of fair Melian’s realm. As the story went, Elwë Thingol of the Teleri had been on his way to join the call to sail west, when he was bewitched by the appearance of a beautiful woman, who was in truth a mighty spirit from another land. Oh, Iaun had heard all the tales that said that Elwë had meant to lead his people to Valinor, really he did.

But then he had laid eyes on a Maia of rapturous beauty, and she had come to meet him, and they had stood in the forest for long years lost in rapt contemplation of each other, until his companions at last despaired of him and abandoned him with great regret, continuing their journey on. Some of them did cross the great water and reach the legendary land of the West. Others did not.

Those who turned aside did not always find ill fortune, for the forest and pasturelands had been green and fertile, and sometimes still Oromë sounded his horn on the hunt, and, as the Elves left behind had been told, it was the wise and kindly voice of Ulmo that muttered softly in the rivers and little streams, to bring comfort to the children of starlight.

Comfort could be scarce in the times when the once-peaceful lands of Beleriand and Ossiriand to the east were plagued by the foul and deadly creatures warped by the hand of Melkor and drawn from unknown lands to his fortresses. It was all well and fine to tell tales of the deeds of the good Valar - but they seemed remote indeed when there was only one Vala whose works and will were hardest borne by the Elves of forest and riverside. When the fell wolves and bloated spiders, and, worst of all, the Orcs came upon them in raids, rending and killing wantonly and defiling living and dead alike, capturing and taking some who were never seen again, the Elves of Middle-earth felt themselves to be very much on their own.

Some of those who had fought in these battles felt themselves unable to return to settled life after the things they had seen and done - there were many of these wandering ones now, haunted by horror and by memory of loss, furtive and aimless in the forests. One of these, a Green-Elf of the scattered, dwindling people of Lenwë, hesitated on the borders of Melian’s land, lingering long before requesting sanctuary there. 

Iaun was his name, also sometimes called Hossiôn, Son of the Army in the Sindarin tongue - for he had little memory of the family lost to an Orc raid early in the time of the stars - and though his given-name meant sanctuary, he was not entirely certain he was fit for safety. 

Yet no judgment did he pass on those who dwelt in the sheltered regions, and from all tales, had built great beauty in their realm. The armies of King Thingol had indeed proven their valor in battle many times over - although the remoteness of their land did at times mean they came in late hour, when too many had already fallen. And there was much in Iaun that longed to join those who dwelt in safety - to build, to trade metalwork and lore with the visiting Naugrim with their gifts for delving and jewel-craft. 

Still, frozen with doubt, he lingered. The forest he knew, with its beauties and its dangers. It was not a place to speak of comfort, but he understood its ways, and he felt no shame if the forest saw his wounds and his weakness, and the wilderness would keep his instincts sharp.

Now, in this uneasy place between safety and the deadly lands all too nearby, Iaun was gathering nuts beneath the beeches when he was brought up short by a sound. Creeping slowly as he had long known how to do - yet hindered by the sinews of shoulder and thigh that no longer flexed as seamlessly as they once had - Iaun crept forward beneath the cover of the great ferns, one hand on his staff and the other on the hilt of his sword. Hoping that his silence would hold, and he could keep the advantage of surprise should this sound turn out to be from some hostile being.

An Elf the stranger in the glade at first appeared, like Iaun himself, and yet clearly of a different kindred and status entirely; he had the rich robes and dark hair and grey eyes of the Noldor, and a haughtiness in his bearing beyond even the greatest of them. Rumor had come even here of an angry host returning from across the Sea bent on vengeance and war; fast-riding couriers had spread tales of burning ships, and the spirits of the waters spoke wary and mournful. Iaun was resolved then to slink away, and let this strange one never lay eyes upon him if it could be helped, for surely it would lead to ill.

And it was to no avail, for Iaun stepped upon a branch that cracked beneath his feet as if Yavanna herself had betrayed him; and a star shone upon his location as if even Elbereth herself wished him seen. The gaze of the lank stranger landed upon him, and Iaun found himself beguiled by the gleam of starlit waters in his eyes. The Enemy could deceive with fair face and words for a time, and yet Iaun felt that he was not in danger, not presently - naked and exposed as he felt beneath that stare.

“You have been in Angband, I perceive,” the stranger said.

Iaun stood still and silent, and gave but one terse nod. “Have you some power of sight?”

“Observation,” the stranger said. “You are Elven, but not Noldor, not Vanyar, and only tenuously Teleri. Clearly Moriquendi, you’ve never been to Valinor. Your green raiment marks you as one who has often dwelt in the forest, but you are not quite so . . . feral . . . as some, so I deduce that you are one of the people of Lenwë, who heeded the summons of Oromë at first but later turned aside down the Anduin. You adjust your body weight as one who has worn armor in the past but now does not, preferring stealth in what you see as your maimed and weakened condition. You have a steel sword, well-made if plain and simple, and it is obviously not of Noldorin make, so clearly you have had contact with at least someone who has had at some time had trade with the Naugrim, most likely by way of Doriath. You know how to use it, but the callouses on your hands and the way you carry yourself tell me that you are more confident with your bow and arrows - or at least you were before you sustained a wound to your shoulder that did not heal as completely as it should. Therefore, you were wounded in battle with the cruelest of enemies, who prevented you from access to immediate healing, most likely by taking you prisoner for a time. Though you have your own skill in healing - I can tell that by the scent of the herbs in that pouch you keep close to your chest - you were not able to bring it to bear enough to repair the damage fully. It must have been the battle in which Lenwë’s son Denethor fell, was it not? You were taken by surprise while trying to help an ally. You have a strong moral principle, but you are wary and slow to trust. Oh, and you are small of stature among your people, and you hoped to compensate for that in deeds of renown. You are motivated to take risks, and you are drawn to dangerous situations.”

Iaun had nothing to say to this for long stretched moments, holding the stranger’s gaze. Finally the stranger sighed and started to turn away, but his eyes lingered long.

“That is . . . wondrous,” Iaun said, for he suddenly wished this strange being would not leave him so soon.

“Truly?” asked the tall Westerner - for that, at least, Iaun could feel certain he was, one recently come from the legendary land across the sea. A strangely radiant smile split that angular face. “That is not the most common response.”

“And that might be?” Iaun asked, unable to restrain a smile of his own.

The tall Westerner’s eyes flicked sideways and down. Was he Elven, after all? What else could he be? Yet there was something in him that made Iaun awed - especially when he shattered his own dignified image for a moment by muttering something in the tongue of Valinor that still rang in Iaun’s ears as very rude. And all Iaun could do was laugh helplessly, and finally, extend his hand.

“I am Iaun of the Nandor, also called Hossiôn,” he said. “And I have wandered these lands for many turns of the stars.”

“Alone,” the stranger said softly, without giving his own name in fair trade. “Iaun, sanctuary, yes, in the Grey-elven tongue? Sanctuary - do you seek it or offer it, I wonder. And Son of the Army, yes? Your parents are dead, then, and gone even beyond your memory. I am sorry for it. Alas, though, I must go swiftly. If you seek shelter within the Girdle of Melian, you must go quickly and make your case at once, for soon her borders will be closed even more tightly against strangers than they presently are. War is coming. It has crossed the sea and marches at great speed. The Noldor are returning, and they bring with them a great wrath, and a curse that will change the shape of these lands forever. Now I know where they will strike, and when. I have no time to lose.”

“You travel alone also?” Iaun said, with a stirring of unaccountable regret. He had indeed spent too much time in the forest, licking his wounds and mourning his losses, shunning all lasting society. 

The stranger turned away with a wave, leaving Iaun bereft with knowledge that regret would haunt him. But suddenly, he stopped and turned, and a willful gleam was in his eye, and a star seemed to shine on him, in his silvery eyes and his dark hair with its unusual curl and wave. “You are a warrior and a healer. Any good?”

 _Many of my people died and I am maimed,_ Iaun thought. _So am I any good? Certainly there are many who are better._ That is not what he said. “I am very good.”

“You have seen much of warfare in this land, you understand its ways.”

Iaun nodded.

“Do you want to see more?”

Iaun almost wept as the “yes” burst from him - his secret regret, exposed in this stranger’s gaze, open and unhidden at last in the starlight. But he indicated his walking staff, his stiffened leg and scarred shoulder. “Yet you said you must go swiftly. I fear I will only slow you down if I try to match your pace.”

“Oh, perhaps not,” said the Westerner with a grin. “I am not deemed especially important in my land. But I may be owed a few small favours, for the occasional lost item found.” He gave a long whistle, melodic and sweet and searing through the perpetual twilight, lingering long and carrying westward.

They waited long moments, and then Iaun heard it - a soft and heavy thrumming of graceful hoofbeats. Soon the creature breached the horizon and galloped over the dew-gleaming meadow, starlight catching on his withers and mane. He was the loveliest horse Iaun had ever seen - dapple-grey he seemed in the lingering twilight, spattered with ink-like markings that seemed like of writing in a mysterious language.

“There you are,” the nameless stranger said to the horse fondly before turning to Iaun. “The Hunter gave him permission to aid me again, in a different land. He is wise among horse-kind. He was smart enough to abandon me once before when I sent him away before going into danger alone. I value such wisdom in my associates.”

“He’s beautiful,” Iaun said admiringly as the horse whuffed into the stranger’s hair, and bent his noble neck to be petted by the stranger’s long-fingered hand. “What is his name?”

“Soon to be unspoken in that tongue in this land, if I read the signs aright. And I do,” the stranger said. “Here we will call him Certhasath. I believe that is close in your tongue to ‘Shadowtext’?”

Iaun nodded, “It will do. And will he carry us both at the speed we require? I am not sure I can . . . “ And he stood still for moment shivering as the stranger’s sharp eyes glanced down his body, lingering on his thighs.

“You can,” the Westerner said. “You were a strong rider once. You are still, if you will only believe it. There, Cersathath bends to help you mount him. Swiftly now, be upon him. Take his mane, he will not mind. You need no saddle - he rides smooth - you need no bridle - he will follow your will. Well, up to a certain point.”

Iaun was shocked and surprised at how easy it felt, to swing himself and all his burdens up onto the great horse’s back, and how fitting he felt there, though he’d never imagined himself astride a steed so fine.

“And you?” he said, holding out a hand to help his new companion up.

“I need not ride just yet,” the stranger said, with a smile. “You’ll see. Now we must be off, no more delays - towards Angband. Do you feel fear? You can still turn back, though this may be your last chance.”

Iaun shivered, but he never thought to shrink from this glory, for courage and excitement sang in his blood and roused in his breath, and for many a long year, he had not felt so young or so free of the weight of slow despair. “I will go. I do not even know your name.”

“I am Sérelókë of Valinor, and I am a hunter of criminals. We go to the meeting of two of the greatest. Now come away with me. Follow if you can!”

And Sérelókë was off on his own long legs, and for a good while he was far in the lead, though the great horse was the swiftest Iaun had ever seen. Truly kin to Nessa he must be, the fair young Valië who dances in the forest and outruns the deer. Of whom Iaun had only heard tell, of course. What a wondrous sensation he felt, at last to believe himself on the fringes of the tales and legends he’d thrilled to in his youth, only to learn later they were not for his kind, at all.

This strange and fey Sérelókë probably led him into death - but that Iaun did not mind so much, for this wild starlit ride felt like nothing so much as rekindling of impossible hope.

“Come, Iaun,” Sérelókë cried out in his deep voice, his breath only slightly ragged as he stood upon a hillock, white steam filling the chilling air from his mouth, as Certhsath paused and huffed, bringing Iaun close. To the North, a range of sharp and craggy mountains blotted out the stars. This could not be their route. “Curse these mountains in our way. What are they called again?”

“We call them Ered Gorgoroth.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Sérelókë chuckled.

“Mountains of Terror.” Iaun nodded.

“Your tongue is straightforward,” said Sérelókë. “I like that in a . . . tongue.”

Iaun suddenly became uncomfortably aware of his own, swiping across his lips against the dry air.

“There,” said Sérelókë pointing. “Oh, I do hope that valley does not lead on too long, but I perceive that once out of the wood, it bends towards the north along the River Sirion, and there we shall meet someone else’s destiny.”

“Er,” Iaun said, and relieved he was when Certhasath began to shift and fidget underneath him. At least he was not the only one who wished to be many leagues away from that darkling, tangled wood. “Yes, that is a fairly direct route if we must go to the Fen of Serech, yet I would choose nearly any other.”

“Does it have an equally appealing name in the local vernacular?”

“Nan Dungortheb,” Iaun said cheerfully. “Valley of Dreadful Death.”

“Marvellous,” Sérelókë said with a little jump for joy atop his earthen mound.

“You know not what lurks there,” Iaun said carefully.

“Ah, but you do,” said Sérelókë.

“Will your gift of sight show you the answer?” Iaun asked. “Or shall I tell you? Or would it amuse you to guess?”

“I do not guess,” Sérelókë started to say, and then he appeared to stop himself, as if he had been about to speak further. Iaun felt even more closely studied by his gaze, and yet there was some strange sympathy there.

“All will be well,” Iaun said carefully. “It is just . . . They are terrible to look upon, and far worse to hear them feed. I would take a hundred Orcs before facing one of those. Though, perhaps with your talents we might defeat them.”

“Indeed,” Sérelókë said as he stepped down from the little hill to walk for a while beside the Elf and the horse. “So, what is the nature of these enemies you fear so much? No, do not be ashamed, as fear is often a sign of foresight. Listen to that voice when danger lurks. Courage is the facing of fear, not the absence of it - that is merely foolishness.”

“There are hungry creatures in this valley,” Iaun said carefully, as if he feared to invoke their name. “Horrid beasts, as big as a horse, with too many eyes and eight jointed legs all tipped with claws, and jaws that drip poison. Ungol.”

“Ah,” said Sérelókë, nodding, and Iaun could not understand why he laughed to himself, turning away as if to hide his slightly shaking shoulders. “Yes, I have encountered their kind.”

“Well, I suppose I am reassured by your mirth,” said Iaun, feeling nothing of the kind, especially since Certhasath began to hesitate and nod his head. “Your horse, he—“

“He’s not my horse,” Sérelókë said quickly. “He is his own horse, and is in the service of one greater than I.”

“Sounds like it cost you something to admit that,” Iaun said with a little smile. “He seems a little frightened, though.”

“No more than you. Though what he fears most is a pen or a cage, and these twisted trees and vines begin to bend in too close for his comfort.”

“For mine as well,” Iaun said. “Forests I know well, born and bred to them, and I can tell at once when one has turned poisoned and cruel. Eat no food you find here. Drink no water. There is nothing here that likes us.”


	3. I Am More Sweet Than Other Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one way to deal with creatures like the residents of the Valley of Dreadful Death - insult them!

Tightly now the trees closed in around them as they proceeded carefully into the valley. Iaun watched the sky for as long as he could before all light was snuffed out by the overhanging, tangled branches. Sérelókë’s feet and Certhasath’s hooves found the path and held to it, but treacherous it was and full of roots and stones and brambles, clutching at them, tripping them.

Certhasath whickered nervously, but quietly. He too seemed to understand the importance of stealth.

“He does not like this place,” Iaun observed pointlessly. “I don’t like it either.”

“I find it useless to expend any of my will on feeling any emotion about it whatsoever,” said Sérelókë tartly.

Iaun gave a surly little grunt and sat silent for a few moments, listening to what few sounds came their way. There was the rustling of their clothes and the creaking of quiver and boot and sword-belt, breath that resonated too much in the darkness. There were Certhasath’s muffled hoofbeats in the loam and dead leaves that were still too loud for their liking, and the voiceless sounds of the forest itself: repellant unexplainable drippings, rustlings of unknown creatures, and the deep, unhappy groans of great trees unsettled in their own woody bulk, though there was no wind to stir their branches.

“Can you see anything at all?” Iaun ventured in a quiet voice.

“I can,” Sérelókë admitted. “A little.”

Now that his own keen Elven eyes, trained to long years of starlit forests, had adapted as far as they ever would, Iaun could see a little too - the hillocks and rises and twists of the treacherous path, the swollen bulks and and hairy vines of the great trees - and from time to time, a tiny gleam of escaping starlight on a shiny, veil-like substance that made him shudder.

And when Sérelókë turned to him, he saw another source of light there - his eyes, mostly silver-blue now, ringing white points of starlight pure and sharp. They seemed to wax and wane as he turned away at times and then back again. Uncanny eyes. Iaun had never quite seen the like of their colour and shine. 

“If it would reassure you to know,” Sérelókë said quietly. “I can make us little lanterns of a sort, in case of great need. I would prefer not to otherwise, for it will make us blind beyond their range, and would attract the notice of those I would prefer to avoid.”

Iaun could see the wisdom of that, and yet he hoped that before long, he would have a look at the sort of light that Sérelókë could make.

The land grew flatter as they walked, and now from time to time Iaun thought he could catch a glimpse of the stars if he kept his eyes fixed straight above - here the trees’ canopy was not so sullenly interlinked.

He hearkened to his companion muttering low: “O Yavanna,” Iaun thought he heard Sérelókë say. “Long it has been since you walked here among your works, that once were fair. Would you even recognize your own handiwork now?”

Iaun finally put his voice to it, in a near-whisper. “What say you?”

Sérelókë just shook his head, lip bitten, brow furrowed. “Circumstances change quickly here,” was all he said, and it was more to himself than to anyone else.

The wood itself had opened a bit, but that did little to improve the air, which was stuffy and thick. The glimpses of the sky overhead provided dim light, but little comfort - the stars were rarely visible now through a creeping smoky haze. The northern horizon between the peaks of the girdling mountains had a sickly reddish glow.

The unsettling rustling and chittering sounds in the surrounding thorny brush were growing more frequent and louder.

Certhasath’s agitation was undeniable now, and Iaun felt both regretful that such a noble horse should be brought here, and uncertain of his own seat. With some rearranging, he swung his bow round and held an arrow ready to string - familiar, taut, and reassuring, though he was not sure he could trust his own draw and aim.

He saw that Sérelókë’s pale hand curled lightly around his sword-hilt as he scanned the wall of trees.

As Iaun expected, there was no healthy growth here. But the twisted plants grown wild, fed by the defiled waters that flowed poisoned from the North, grew in profusion, with their smell of rot and glowing deadly fungal growths that gave forth a sickly light, a mockery of the stars.

Sérelókë held up his hand when the rustling grew overwhelming, and now that horrid chittering had taken on a certain steadiness, as though it were some sort of abhorrent language.

Iaun thought he could see open land between the boles now, and he felt his muscles tense instinctively - if he had his way, now Sérelókë would vault up on the great horse behind him. Or at least be ready to run fleet-footed as was his wont. As long as they could get free of the brambles and trees, they could at least fight and die in the open air rather than penned up and tangled in the darkness, and Iaun knew he would prefer that.

“Be still,” Sérelókë muttered. “This is the most dangerous time.”

Now a thick silence fell as the darkness deepened. Even Sérelókë’s eyes flickered side to side in vain.

Without prelude, a creature lunged from the shadows, forelegs reaching and jaws clattering. A monstrous spider it was, moving with unnatural speed toward Iaun and his mount. Certhasath reared and gave the creature a mighty blow with his hooves, and still Iaun held on.

The terrified horse wheeled and charged down the path toward light, seeing too late the veil of webbing strung between trees. Too late Certhasath reared again, and executed a horrible sort of bucking twist that drove him and Iaun on his back into the very center of the binding web that blocked the path. As the sticky strands entangled them, Iaun struggled to get his arm free to get at his sword, but the web clung to him with a grotesque sort of weight and used his own movements to bind him.

Certhasath gave a horrible scream as the spiders closed in. There were so many of them. Wildly Iaun tried to see behind them, for any glimpse of Sérelókë - had they caught him already, were they devouring him even now? Oh, Iaun wished with all his being that he had pleaded harder against taking the road through this valley. For the Girdle of Melian kept her own realm safe, but it acted also as a wall against which foul things gathered in greater densities than anywhere else south of Angband.

So many, so many - Iaun’s vision started to swim in the sight of so many loathsome hard-shelled bodies with their spiky arched legs and their clattering jaws dripping venom. Certhasath’s thrashings kept them at bay for moments, but Iaun knew that couldn’t last long. Still it did not seem right that such a noble animal should die in such a fashion, so Iaun renewed his struggles for the horse’s sake, desperate to free his pinned arm. His wounded shoulder popped and protested, but Iaun fought with all he had against the strands of deadly silk as the spiders regained their courage and closed in. 

A blow from Certhasath’s hooves seemed to do for one, and it lay there horribly twitching, leaking ichor from its broken face. Iaun managed to clear away enough strands to get the horse halfway free, and realized with horror that he should have fallen off his back to the ground, but he could not fall - he was bound and suspended by spiderweb from every limb.

“Go, go, go,” he muttered to the horse. “Find Sérelókë. Go free if you cannot. Do not let them take you.” He sliced at the webbing and Certhasath kicked, now slightly calmed enough that his struggles served to free him and not to bind him further. “Yes, yes, like that, fight the web, don’t fight me. See if you can trample a few of them for me, won’t you? Go!”

With a scream of triumph and rage Certhasath burst out of the web to trample spiders, and just as Iaun had suspected, he himself still hung in the web as if he had never been on a horse at all.

But when the great grey-dappled horse mowed through the vainly snapping, snatching spiders, Iaun saw something that amazed him.

The spiders recoiled at first from a strange dancing light, and then seemed distracted from Iaun, their certain prey, for a moment to stare at this thing - it seemed to hurt them - they would certainly blink if they could, as sparks of shining blue fire emanated out at them.

And then at the center of it came a voice - chanting, taunting, sing-song, unbelievably annoying - and the sparks seem to dance with it, prickling and burning the spiders into madness.

Iaun couldn’t make out half the words, or the half-regal, half-barbaric tongue they seemed spoken in - or be sure that the taunter wasn’t making most of them up on the spot - but he thought by now that he would know that voice anywhere.

_Eight-legged belly brainless and bloated_  
_Camlost craven shadow-cowering_  
_Ungwë spinning unlight useless_  
_Empty hunger hiding sightless_  
_Forsaken, feckless cannot find me_  
_your own hemp-holes with a hound of hunting_  
_and eight claws to bind me!_

 

Doubtless the spiders could not see Sérelókë, because of the flickering effect of the blinding light, brighter and closer than any the spiders would have ever known. Iaun resolved not to be distracted by them himself, and worked closely with sword and dagger at the revolting threads that held him pinned limb by limb.

The spiders seemed unsure whether to temporarily abandon their safely caught prey for the uncertain other, so just for a moment Iaun let himself lie limp, hoping they’d think him far more securely captured than he was. The spiders couldn’t have been very bright, for it seemed to work, and they turned away again at another fresh offensive rhyme.

_Slothful she-slobs dung-fly suckers_  
_Bungling ungol beetle-bothering_  
_Married long to middling meat,_  
_Now cannot know a nicer treat_

_Far juicier for your jaws I’d be_  
_Were you not too slow to fetch me_  
_Finest flavored flesh have I_  
_But you can never catch me!_

That got them, especially the sounds of rustling leaves leading farther and farther away. The boldest of them had turned and were chasing this new distraction, for at least they seemed sentient enough to recognize the stranger meant them insult.

“That all you got? Still scared? Holding back? What cowards you are. Come on, you fat morons, come get me. You lower the intelligence of the whole forest! Come on, leave that little nothing snack alone and get the real meal, over here!”

Almost there, Iaun thought, moving his arms more freely now, almost able to reach entirely around himself.

The spiders had nearly all turned their backs on him now, and the bolder ones had charged forward towards the flickering lights. Iaun tried not to laugh too hard as the taunts continued.

“Not afraid of you. I could take you all in a flash, you’re nothing, you hangers-on in Orc latrines.”

The light grew brighter and Iaun was dazzled and delighted to see cups of bright blue fire in Sérelókë’s hands, shining on his wild and animated face. “Come at me, ye nithings, I’m not afraid of you. Come at me. I stomp on your kin on the paving stones of my city. Come at me. I’ve handled poison worse than yours for a thousand Tree-turns. Come at me. I FUCKED YOUR MOTHER.”

With that, the spiders lunged, hissing and almost roaring in their rage. Sérelókë seemed to grow to three times his size, and the cold flames in his palms illuminated the trees in a blinding display.

And that was light aplenty for Iaun to spike the spiders through with arrow after arrow, his arms at last free enough to shoot. Not up to the speed he’d had before his wound, but good enough on distracted targets.

And when the spiders stilled, Sérelókë ran to Iaun as fast as a blink, and finished cutting him free. He stood around and paced as Iaun took his slow time reclaiming his arrows from the pierced spider bodies, knowing that every one was precious and would be needed. This took so long that Sérelókë finally deigned to lower himself to help with the tedious work.

“I suppose I should feel some emotion,” Sérelókë muttered. “Considering it’s possible that some of these dead were my children.”

Iaun turned to look at him in horror.

Sérelókë was laughing. “Do you believe everything you’re told, Iaun?”

Wiping his arrows clean one by one and making a great fuss of arranging them properly in his quiver, Iaun finally brought himself to smile. “I confess I am having trouble knowing what to believe,” he said. “Now that legends I only half-believed before seem to be coming to life around me.”

He dreaded for a moment that he had revealed too much of his mawkish heart, but Sérelókë only nodded. “Well, Iaun, if you cannot come to the West, then at least some of the West is coming to you. But not the kindest and gentlest of it, I fear. Only the most interesting.”

Now, to himself, Iaun began to wonder if Sérelókë might not be one of the Valar himself, come to walk in native disguise. Certainly there was power within him that his form barely contained. And yet, if he were that mighty, why disguise himself at all?

“I have not made a study of how long these spiders’ eggs incubate or how long it takes them to grow to this size, but I’m very certain not nearly enough time has passed,” Sérelókë could be heard to mutter to himself, a look of amusement upon his striking face.

 _You are wary and slow to trust._ Iaun heard those words echoing again in his mind, and well he knew the truth of them. Was this trust he felt so quickly towards this fearsome stranger once they had passed through a peril together? No, he was certain it was not - not yet. Not trust, and still a great desire to follow him further - a certain knowledge that Iaun’s heart could not rest without seeing more that Sérelókë had to show him. For up ahead loomed far greater trials than the one they had just endured, and the old fears that Iaun had long carried grew renewed strength in his mind.

Iaun started and twitched at a rustle in the forest, but his heart rejoiced to see that it was Certhasath, unharmed and clearly glad to see them, whickering softly. “Let him lead us,” Sérelókë said. “I do believe he has found a way out of this maze and into the open starlight. What little of it the foul forges of Angband will leave to us, anyhow. Come. We have lost much time, and the battle rages on without us. Fell deeds are afoot, Iaun!”

Iaun grinned as he vaulted himself back onto Certhasath, for he now perceived that Sérelókë’s uncanny enthusiasm for observing mayhem was a strange form of something long missing from his weary forest watch: joy.

And if Sérelókë’s otherworldly light, his unsettling form of beauty, brought to Iaun’s eyes what his adventurous will brought to his heart, well, so be it. Though Sérelókë led them into danger and he might be unpredictable and fey, Iaun would gladly follow, for better a short life in this light than a long dreary fading in the shadows without it. And soon that light would shine on the darkness of the marches of Angband, and only fate would tell if it should prevail, or fall into shadow. If Iaun could be of aid, then he was certain that he must; from this chance at destiny, there was no turning back now.


	4. The Battlefield Under the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iaun would not choose to be bystander to a great battle - but Fëanor's fall is terrifying. And Iaun's new friend Sérelókë is more terrifying still.

Giddy at first from relief at the escape from the spiders, Iaun found his mood to once more darken as the dreary journey continued. Even Sérelókë seemed subdued now, running ahead and dropping back more and more often to stay beside Iaun and Certhasath. He placed his hand on the horse’s withers just ahead of Iaun’s leg, muttered to himself and watched the sky as reddish smoke began to dim and befoul its dark spaces, cloaking the stars.

"We draw near to the Enemy," Iaun said, knowing Sérelókë would already have marked it well. Yet he could bear no more of the dreading, watchful silence.

"Splendidly obvious, Iaun," Sérelókë said as he sniffed the air. "It is quiet. Far more than it should be."

“Yes, I perceived that as well, brilliant one,” Iaun said with a rueful smile.

The closer they drew to the Fen of Serech, the thicker the air became, heavy and poisonous with an ever-growing smell of waste and filth, rotting and burning, life turned into death and worse.

Iaun knew at least some of the tangled parts of the complicated miasma of the stench - swamp water and ruptured flesh left to rot in the marsh.

Sérelókë's nose twitched almost comically, and he could not hide what had to be a sense of instinctual alarm. He and Certhasath were as brothers in this behavior with their jittery stomping. Iaun couldn't be certain for a moment which of the two he thought more likely to neigh.

“Are you all right?” Iaun asked, watching Sérelókë’s fair skin turn even paler, then slightly green, then back to its usual hue. “Have you never smelled this before?”

Sérelókë breathed deep and then winced as though he regretted it swiftly. “I have smelt battle before, once, but I was at a safe distance and buffered from it by the sweet winds of the sea. But what’s this? I know the smell of spilt Elven blood - and it was Elves who spilt it - but this . . . “

He gave a little gasp as the cliffs parted ahead of them, and they saw the full view of the vast Fen laid out before them. It was a wasteland of death and ruination.

After all he’d fought through and all he had lost, Iaun thought he should be glad to see so many dead and rotting Orcs, hewn to bits with great vigor and strewn across the wet valley as far as the eye could see. He was not.

Certhasath neighed. As one, Sérelókë and Iaun raised their cloaks across the lower half of their faces. Iaun reached in his kit and drew out a clay pot of an astringent salve --eye-watering in its own right, but with a clean scent of strong herbs, biting but refreshing. He smeared it between his nose and upper lip, and handed it to Sérelókë. “It helps a bit. With the smell.”

Sérelókë accepted it and did as Iaun had. He said nothing but, “You’ve attended to the dead after a battle before.”

“Yes,” Iaun said, nodding. “But . . . They were the dead of my own people. Not — these.”

“Well,” Sérelókë said. “Rest assured we shall not spend the time to clean up this mess. And these are . . . “ He kept muttering, descending into the valley. Although the horse was hesitant to follow, Iaun prodded him gently with his heels, not willing to risk letting Sérelókë out of his sight. 

“Oh,” Sérelókë exclaimed softly again and again as he left Iaun and the horse standing still at the edge of the marsh, striding and sloshing amid scores of dead Orcs. Iaun longed to hold him back from touching the unclean things, but Sérelókë would not be deterred from his study: exclaiming over their hideous faces, bending low to examine their crude but effective armor and their primitive but lethal, brutishly made iron weapons.

Little good their fortress-forged armor had done them — though among the sea of dull grey and black and brown-fading gore, Iaun saw the occasional patch of shining steel, fair skin, and bright hair that caught the starlight.

“They did not even stop, or leave anyone behind to care for their own,” Sérelókë said, because he had clearly spotted the same things also, pausing for a moment to gaze into lifeless Elven eyes. “Is that considered as negligent among your people as it would be among the Noldor?”

“That is one word for it,” Iaun said tightly, as he kept his lips pressed taut while his chest roiled in disgust and anger.

“They are still engaged elsewhere,” Sérelókë said, gazing northward. “This was but the beginning of the battle. The end is not yet come.” Skirting the northwestern edge of the fens, the corpses grew less thick, and the riot of footprints of Elf, Orc, horse, giant wolf, and other beasts less known and unimaginable grew denser. Iaun though even Sérelókë would have no hope of deciphering them in any complexity, but he seemed to grasp the gist quickly.

“Here! Most of the Orcs are dead, but some survived long enough to retreat. They were pursued. There is a trail. The surviving Orcs are few.”

Still, there was something odd about Sérelókë's behavior. Iaun watched carefully as he stood for long moments staring into dead faces, his jaw working and lips moving as he seemed to be lost for a time in the unimaginable machinery of his mind.

For Iaun himself had a realisation of his own now, impossible as it seemed. "Sérelókë," he asked, feeling that he got closer to the pronunciation of that name with every attempt, or at least he was learning to feel the rhythm of its strange swirl around his lips and tongue and throat. "You look like you've never seen an Orc before."

"I had not,” Sérelókë admitted quickly with no hint of embarrassment. "There are none in Valinor."

"Truly a paradise it must be, then," Iaun said wryly.

"Then - have I simply never seen them," Sérelókë mused to himself, "Or do they truly never come to the Halls of Mandos? Surely if they come, it must be in great numbers, I would have observed the legions of them marching sooner or later, I spent enough time lurking about his gardens..." He did not appear to be speaking to anyone but himself. “Mandos keeps his own counsel, and so it remains possible for the Valar as a body to claim they know little of the Eldar who die here . . . and yet . . . “

"Er...why would they come there?" Iaun asked. “The Orcs, I mean.”

"You must have heard rumours of what they once were," Sérelókë said. "You are much closer to the source."

Iaun closed his eyes for a moment against the unexpected violent pang of horror and sorrow. "Yes . . . it is rumoured, yes. At least the first ones . . . long ago. Is it true, then?”

“I cannot confirm,” Sérelókë said. “The precise designs of Melkor are yet veiled from my sight, and the details of the torments of his domain unknown to me.”

“May they remain so,” Iaun said.

Sérelókë shook his head, and Iaun shivered in a damp, foetid breeze. Did Sérelókë not share his wish? “We draw our working ideas from what is known to us already. He longs to create life after his image in truth, but he cannot, and this is a source of constant rage to him. His gift lies in destruction, and worse than that - corrupting and twisting and reshaping to his will until all living things made to grow or walk upon Arda become the reflections of his . . . art. How complete are his remakings? Can he truly ruin for all time even that which was made immortal?”

Iaun felt nearly faint - with weariness, with the unhealthy vapors of the rotting marsh of death, with the weight of sorrow for a thousand years of prisoners. A fool he’d been to mourn the dead so deeply, when they were the fortunate ones.

Sérelókë turned his face to the north, nose wrinkling but unbowed as he inhaled deeply of the rank and unwholesome air. “Even knowing what I know, even having seen him with mine own eyes, I had underestimated Melkor’s dedication to his work, such as it is. Were his work of any other nature, it would almost be admirable. Perhaps this is why I have heard it whispered that the Maiar of Aulë are the quickest to succumb to his song. And not only the Maiar - had he but relaxed his obsession with the jewels, I would not be surprised if, in time, he could have had Fëanor himself instead.

"Before Melkor's first confinement," Sérelókë muttered to himself. "When he came crawling back begging forgiveness, he had left an army behind to breed in his absence. He never intended to forsake these lands. Any fool could have seen that. Why didn't they just listen?"

“Of whom do you speak?” Iaun looked up at him - and up indeed it was, why did he have to be so stunted according to the nature of his kind, why did Sérelókë have to be so stubbornly tall? Was he a Vala after all? Though in truth he was no taller than one of the greater Elvenkind. Even his face resembled those of the dead Eldar scattered among the Orcs like jewels in iron ore - angular, proud. Iaun could not tell by the eyes of the dead whether if in life they would have blazened with cool silver stars like Sérelókë's, but he would not be surprised by it if they did.

And yet there remained, still leaving its ghost behind in Iaun’s eyes, that light in the forest that hypnotized the spiders - the lights in Sérelókë's hands, the way he seemed to bring forth and shape the flame from nothingness, or perhaps from within himself.

Perhaps this was a gift given to those who have looked upon the Valar with their own eyes. Perhaps this was a power that came from the soil of the land of the deathless.

He was sure he was not imagining that Sérelókë was regarding him now with a look that pierced deep into him, and yet was - thankfully - not pity. Knowing now at least a little of how much Sérelókë saw, it was all Iaun could do not to flee that nearly-all-seeing gaze. Yet he had endured it so far, and with time and familiarity it might grow easier.

"Come, Iaun. We must follow the retreat and the pursuit."

"Well, if you wish to see more Orcs, and perchance some living, that is the right way to go," Iaun said ruefully. Above the smoke above the plain now, far away and yet not far enough, Iaun could see the highest points in all this land - the smoking, stinking slag-gateway called Thangorodrim. A dull roar of sound came to his ears now - indistinct and chaotic, echoing from the craggy walls of stone. From the center of his body came rolling waves of instinctual fear, unbidden and unbanishable, yet he kept his grip on Certhasath’s mane steady, determined to defeat it. Excitement, now - that was an impulse he could use.

Iaun had hoped to never come so close to the stronghold of the Enemy again. Well, so be it, if the weaves of his fate accounted him to die here, he supposed there was no escaping that. And yet, in his companion's brilliance and unlikely form of innocence, he felt something once again resembling hope.

“It is not done, then?” Iaun asked, feeling both relief and regret to think it might be. “We have not missed it all?”

Sérelókë’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no, no. No, we’re just in time if we hurry.” With a shockingly fast and lithe movement, he’d vaulted up behind Iaun on the horse’s back. “Run, Certhasath, run like the storm-wind, and we’ll send you off before it gets too deadly.”

 

***

 

Sérelókë scanned the burning horizon, peering over Iaun’s shoulder and Certhasath’s neck and head, far ahead to a dark beetling mass just shy of the mountains. As they drew closer, rapidly, he drew in breath, and subtly leaned in closer to Iaun, who held onto Certhasath’s mane and was clearly trying to stay stoic in the face of his own entirely justified terror.

For his part, the horse showed no hesitation, for clearly he perceived that he could not show less courage than the steeds of Fëanor’s cavalry, too many of whom now lay dead and dying on the trampled plain, along with their riders. To Sérelókë’s sight, it was clear that the Fëanorians had the upper hand and the likely victory, but it had not been bought cheaply.

Sérelókë himself could not help but shudder as the mountain range came into sharper focus, and he had at last an unobstructed view of the great peaks of Thangorodrim, the gates of Melkor’s fortress. They were not natural mountains shaped by the Song or by the natural movements of great plates of land; they were giant slag heaps full of fire within, volcanic refuse of a thousand years’ worth of the industry of war.

Now they could hear the shouts and cries, the threats and feints and taunts and boasts, all subsumed in the clanging of steel and the cleaving of flesh, and they could smell the horrific stench of the burning oils, the flaming projectiles from Angband’s trebuchets, and nearly feel the wakes of the stinging and burning arrows from both directions like swarms of deadly flies. “There! There is the banner of Fëanor’s house. Still standing. Stay back,” Sérelókë cried. “We cannot be seen.”

“Are we going to join the battle?”

“Would you ally yourself with either side?” Sérelókë hissed. “You might not if you had seen what I’ve seen.”

“Then why are we here?” Iaun looked puzzled, as though his brave warrior’s heart knew only one purpose when battle loomed near. Simplicity manifest - and yet not so, complexity beneath the surface, as Sérelókë had seen in him from the start. Simplicity can at times bring shining clarity, as well Sérelókë knew.

“To bear witness,” Sérelókë said. “Don’t be disappointed, we’re still in plenty of danger.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Iaun muttered, turning back and getting a face full of Sérelókë’s hair, whipped round by the hot, spiraling winds that raked the plain. As he moved Sérelókë could feel the solid strength of him, contained for now, prepared to burst forth in time of need. “Whatever this Fëanor has done or will do, I still cannot stand idle and watch the Enemy win.”

“The Enemy will not win this battle,” Sérelókë said with certainty. “But neither will he lose it, precisely.” Quickly now he swung down from Certhasath’s back and landed with a little bounce on the bloody ground, reaching out a hand to help Iaun. Iaun nodded at the offer but declined as he dismounted, trying not to visibly wince when his injured leg inevitably bent beneath him - and smiling when it did not. Sérelókë kept his secret smile to himself. He patted the noble horse on the rump, and sent him off to stand beneath a rock outcropping, to any observer nothing but a cavalry horse who had lost his rider.

Now, smaller, stealthier, Sérelókë and Iaun crept closer, sticking to the cover of rocks and reeking great heaps of Orc bodies, and the shattered projectiles from Angband’s great machines.

“Oh - oh, there, they go,” Sérelókë cried as a small group detached itself from the vanguard and charged ahead, pursuing the retreating army of Angband as fast it could go. At the head flew Fëanor’s banner, bold and ragged and held high against the burning sky - into the very heart of the rising flame at the gates of Angband. The remainder of the Orc army fell in behind him and engaged pitched battle with kin that he’d abandoned as Fëanor and his closest companions plunged into the heart of the storm, fire gleaming on their red-plumed helms and shining crimson on their armour of shiny fish-scale steel. Crude black iron came after them from the rear. “Fool. Could not hold back until reinforcements arrived. Yet who could not have foreseen that?”

“Stay back,” Sérelókë said to Iaun firmly. “This foe is beyond you and there is no shame in that.” Iaun started to grasp at his arm to hold him back - so fearful for Sérelókë’s sake, so quickly - why? - and then his face froze in horrified awe as Sérelókë began to let his body melt away into the realm where his half-forgotten thoughts went, stored away in the ordered spiral towers of his mind. 

Sérelókë could not watch Iaun watching him, he had to focus on the act of unfocusing — for to walk unclad without any of the matter of the world was not quite so simple a thing outside of Valinor. If Sérelókë were not careful, matter would begin to reconvene about his spirit, shaping itself into a ghostly outline of the shape he had most recently worn (and he was thankful that shape happened to be the one he found most comfortable, not certain others he had formed for the sake of convenience or stealth or productive deception in the past).

But in no shape at all, that was the only way he could get close to the heart of the pitched battle without being spotted and attacked - quite possibly by both sides, which would be a most irritating distraction. Since he was quite certain Fëanor’s forces held the advantage for the time being and were likely to keep it unless Melkor himself took the field, Sérelókë had no desire to influence the outcome - only to witness it clearly for every pertinent detail.

“What are you doing? Where are you?” Iaun said, obviously awed and frightened. “What are you?”

“Ssshh, Iaun, it’s quite all right,” Sérelókë said, a bit crossly, for even an audible voice was a manifestation that added weight. “Just getting myself into a form that will help me get closer safely. Ah, and I can see farther as well, being unlimited by material eyes. Fascinating. I deem it nearly certain that Melkor will not come forth himself. I have no doubt Fëanor thought he would, the vain fool. ‘Yes, of course, I’ll bring the jewels right out where everyone can see them’ - if Fëanor was too proud to do that, why would he imagine Melkor would . . . Oh, but he is bringing out the big weapons, isn’t he?” Sérelókë felt a rising thrill as he looked at the line of fire spreading across the entrance to Angband.

Drums beat - deep and dark, through the ground as though they came from the very fissures within the earth that shifted and rended themselves asunder, revealing veins of molten rock and deadly clinging fire. Angband was sending forth its most terrifying warriors yet.

Fortunately, Iaun seemed to be adjusting quickly to listening to someone he could no longer see. “What? What is it?”

Sérelókë knew Iaun could not see his gleeful smile, but he could possibly hear it in his voice. “Valaraukar. Demons of might. Shadow and flame.”

Iaun scrambled closer to the top of the rock they hid behind, peering over the edge. They could hear drumming now, and war-cries, and see thin filaments of flame, of the deadly fire-whips. Surrounded by hulking armored trolls, the tall and mighty beings marched, with their fierce horned heads and stony skin cracked throughout by red flame within. “Balrogs,” he murmured. “With wings.”

“I’m going to get closer,” Sérelókë said.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh, my dear Iaun Hossiôn, it is dangerous,” Sérelókë said with delight, losing a little control of his ethereality in his excitement to shimmer back into vision again, if not at all solid, and to Iaun the green-grey gleam of his eyes was fey in the distant light of the flickering flames. “Very dangerous. Much I know of their kind that is not known in this land. There was a little problem I solved some time ago - two Teleri brothers near to piercing each other to the heart in a passionate wager, with a ship as its price.”

Iaun felt this was hardly the time to share reminiscence, as the drumbeat of the giant’s steps came closer. Yet Sérelókë also was a flame, and one that held the eye and stayed the hand.

“And it was?”

“Nearly a first kinslaying, not to be such a widely-told tale as the greater,” Sérelókë said with a grim little smile. “The argument was over whether Balrogs have wings at all.”

“And do they?”

“That is why it’s so very dangerous,” Sérelókë said with glee, fading into invisibility again, but long did the shine of his eyes linger. “They have them, yes - but only during their mating season.”

Iaun cursed quietly, an oath Sérelókë had not heard before, and for a moment the clear mist of pure Ainur spirit that Sérelókë had become swirled around him and covered him. Sérelókë wanted Iaun to feel him near, and he had no hands to do anything as mundane as pat his companion’s shoulder to steady his heart. He left enough gleam in the air that Iaun could possibly still see him glittering in the starlight for a few moments more. Then Sérelókë left him, to speed towards the battlefield in unencumbered haste.

With unerring instinct, Sérelókë followed the Light of Valinor as it still clung to the Noldor, though diminished and darkened by their own crimes and their own doom. Quickly did he go, for this light drew him, even as it was absorbed into the red volcanic glow of the Valaraukar.

Sérelókë allowed himself to indulge in awe for the ferocity of the Noldor, and the fearless glory that streamed from them as they charged forward, hesitating not, calling challenge to their enemy, the Dark Lord Morgoth as they named him now, the most reviled, he whom they would pursue to destruction and death, be it his or theirs.

There may once have been a moment when Sérelókë had considered the possibility of claiming a Silmaril to bring to Yavanna, to win by cleverness what Fëanor could not take by force. Perhaps. When he saw the viciousness of Fëanor and his sons in the grip of their madness, he abandoned that idea forever. Though he was not one to quail at curses, he saw now that no good would ever come of those jewels again, their beauty unchanged but now as that of bait for a trap set with poison.

For days already had the Fëanorians fought, laying the Orc hosts low at the Fens and at Mithrim and now at the very gates of Angband, pressing into the very heart of Dor Daedeloth. Fëanor had rushed ahead with few friends, having lost all sense of strategy in his frenzy for vengeance. Could he not see how outnumbered he was now? How he’d had his own life and those of his companions balanced on a blade’s edge? Did he not see he was surrounded?

If he saw, he cared not. Fëanor had given up all regard for his own life. And now clearly Sérelókë could see that he would lose it. There could have been no other outcome once that oath was sworn. Sérelókë allowed himself a moment of sorrow, for Fëanor could have made many great works still had he not succumbed to such pride, and to waste such a mind in rash violence was a great shame.

But only a moment, and only a little sorrow, for Sérelókë had to remain an unclothed spirit and be prepared to shift again if needed, for fortunes and positions can change quickly in battle. Emotions added weight, and some of them more than others.

***

Stuck back at the rocks, Iaun seethed in frustration, close enough to the most frenzied pitch of battle that flame and sword flash were visible in the red firelight, but he could not be sure at all of what was happening. It did not sit well with his nature to hang back in safety while others risked themselves and suffered, though he could tell that one lone warrior would have little to contribute to the outcome. Sérelókë had been right about that.

If only he could see what was happening. He burned with curiosity for a closer look at these fierce, furious Eldar returned from the West - and many who had been born there - yet more than that, he hoped to at least gain a sense of where Sérelókë might be and what he was doing.

Iaun heard soft hoofbeats behind him, and a gentle whicker with a strange hushed quality - for Iaun could almost swear, though he’d never heard quite that sound before, it was the voice of a horse whispering.

He looked back cautiously to see Certhasath watching him, tossing his head and glancing off to one side.

Now Iaun could see what the noble horse had spotted, that Iaun had missed before. There was a fissure in the rock face, and great shards of shale tall as trees had split off from the cliff and formed a sort of fence, broken and leaning with great gaps in between. Behind them, against the main body of the plateau, there was a narrow sandy channel where a horse might run swiftly and not be spotted by distracted fighters if his luck - and that of his rider - held true.

Iaun smiled. He would put trust in his luck, and that of the great horse of the Valar - for he had always been fond of games of chance, and had his luck not already seemed to have improved since he met the mysterious Sérelókë?

“You’re almost as smart as he is,” Iaun murmured as Certhasath bowed low enough to allow Iaun to mount with dignity. “And a good deal more considerate.”

Certhasath trotted steadily along the path, twitching his tail hard enough to lash Iaun’s leg with it as he moved, gauging his own speed by what he saw ahead. Certhasath was no fool, and he was not wont to spook easily, and it made Iaun wonder about the strange things the horse must have seen in the service of the Hunter.

Iaun had never been so close to a Balrog before - close enough to feel the heat, he imagined, great stifling waves of it, though perhaps that was an illusion produced by the sight alone. 

This must be the Balrog lord Gothmog himself, so great was he in size and the waves of terror that streamed from him, adorned with cruel iron and bone trophies of honour (or what passed for such in Angband), as he strove with that radiant, furious Elf lord who must be Fëanor - a spirit of fearsome fire in his own right. Red whip and bright sword clashed again and again; bright sword deflected black axe, but that left the whip of fire free to strike again and again.

This was Iaun’s first good look at the Noldor, the Elven line that had diverged so much from his own through long ages in the bliss of Aman, grown tall and regal and proud. They had brought themselves low in this battle they could not win - but they had not entirely lost it either, for Melkor’s forces were scattered and frightened, torn apart by a skill and ferocity they had not expected.

For many hours, this savage struggle waged. Iaun grew weary with the long vigil and his heart gave pangs of grief within him. His thighs and lower back ached but he dared not dismount. Certhasath would do naught to aid that if Iaun chose to, for he too perceived it was well to be ready for flight in the change of an instant. It was agony to watch the struggles of Fëanor with Gothmog, for it was becoming clear to him that the Elven king could not win this match, and yet his courage and purpose would give no quarter. Fëanor had a mighty will, and yet it only served to work against him, to hold him in place for his death. Without that, he would have lived many ages of the world. Now he stumbled as the whip of fire lashed into him again and again.

Iaun supposed that somewhere in his hidden heart, he might have hoped that somehow, intervention would come. That the long-revered and rarely-seen Valar would step in. That this mysterious Sérelókë, who clearly had powers beyond Iaun’s ken, would intervene. Now it was clear that he either would not or could not. Iaun searched the air around for a sign of him, and saw naught but glittering specks of dust.

With grief, Iaun watched as the Elf-lord collapsed, still cursing Morgoth from his blood-flecked lips that streamed smoke from within, as his friends and kin rushed to his defense, and to carry him away to heal, perhaps, or to die, more likely.

And then the glittering dust coalesced into a form: a being as tall as Morgoth’s warlord, clad in and made up of a sort of flame of his own emanation, though his fire was the colour of the stars, cool white and blue and crisp and cold. He seemed to draw power from the dark sky where it showed clean and pure between the clouds, and for a moment the stinking clouds of foul gas from Thangorodrim parted and let Iaun see those stars clearly once again. Iaun imagined their twinkling had taken on a note of shock and amazement.

“Gothmog,” rang out a deep voice. “Fallen Maia. Brother of mine among the Ainur. Who changed your tune to sing with Melkor, and now you can do naught but destroy. Turn to me. Pick on one thine own size.”

 _Oh,_ Iaun thought. _Oh._ For the tall being of cold blue light wore a face that was now familiar - though the grim, gleeful purpose in his expression was new.

_What are you, Sérelókë?_

For a moment, Iaun felt a strange and passing sadness, and recognized in that instant he had believed that Sérelókë was close enough to his equal that they could be friends and, mayhap, more. But now as Iaun watched in horror and awe, he saw that any fellowship between them must be unbalanced.

Nonetheless, he could not take his eyes away from the spectacle before him, as Sérelókë and the Balrog circled each other, trading taunts and the shimmering bursts of fire produced by their single combat - white and red, cold and hot, embers and ice. Certhasath shifted and seethed beneath him, and Iaun petted his neck, unsure who he was reassuring most.

Did the Balrog lord Gothmog even notice that his personal guard were falling one by one, hacked to pieces by the remaining Noldor who had arrived behind Fëanor’s headstrong rush, now enraged anew by their leader’s fall?

Or was Gothmog completely distracted now by his unexpected challenger, his unforeseen equal, and his whip and his taunts? That lash of cold fire around his throat seemed to hurt him terribly. Iaun had not thought anything could.

Iaun nearly revealed his own hiding place by crying out in fear as Gothmog’s whip lashed Sérelókë, and his black axe swung around to cleave him. Iaun leaned forward far over Certhasath’s neck as Sérelókë counterstruck and disarmed him. Iaun wondered how such beings as Gothmog came to be, if they arose from the same thought of Eru’s as Sérelókë himself - and how many of his kind served Melkor, and what would Sérelókë be like if he were turned to the darkness, falling into the power of destruction and cruelty, growing in brute strength even as his energy turned to evil? Was that how Balrogs were made?

Sérelókë seemed to think so, as read in his taunts to Gothmog. Yet another force was needed beyond mere evil will - Gothmog had changed under Melkor’s own touch.


	5. Where There's a Whip, There's a Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sérelókë confronts Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, before the very gates of Angband. And Iaun discovers something about his new companion - and something about himself as well. (Specifically, a raging voyeurism kink.)
> 
> This is the chapter where that rating, that pairing, and those tags, all get justified.

Sérelókë stayed as impassive as he could, only wincing a little as the whip of fire lashed Fëanor again and again. To Sérelókë it seemed that fire leaked from the rents in the Elven-king’s skin, as though his blood ran hot with molten metal, until he began to seem nearly Balrog-like himself. 

Two spirits of fire, striving unto the death: Sérelókë knew it was not impossible that an Elf of great force could defeat even one of the Maiar. It would be a fascinating thing to watch. To defeat is one thing, to kill is another. Can the Ainur truly die? All Sérelókë’s research had led him to believe that material forms could be temporarily destroyed but the essence would remain, taking flight to build another shape. Which, of course, had implications that he could apply to himself. Yet the Valaraukar had long been subject to the corruption of Melkor’s influence - Morgoth, as the Noldor called him now - and that had the potential to warp and change even the very fëa of a being, did it not? For the Balrogs were not as they had once been. They would have had to surrender something in exchange for what they gained when they threw in their lot with _him._

And what they had gained was clearly on display: the power and the potency in that great molten muscular body, the fierce horned head, the whip of fire - the terror that went before them that did half the fighting for them, for even some of Fëanor’s stalwarts had quailed before them. This was power that some would bargain for dearly and deem no price too high.

Sérelókë quivered in his particles and felt helpless in bearing witness as Fëanor’s doom came upon him; it was a greater flame than his own, and he would burn like the swan ships at Losgar. The dark and heavy words of Mandos weighed in Sérelókë’s mind, oppressive and binding. Unpleasant and uncomfortable was this knowledge, that he could not stand between Fëanor and the death that he had chosen - while Sérelókë had not even yet made up his mind that he wished to try. Nothing made Sérelókë want to attempt something more than being told he must not, especially by a voice that seemed to invade from within the walls of his own thought.

Yet as quickly as the sense of geas came upon him, it seemed to lift again, and as Sérelókë watched the sons of Fëanor rally to their ailing father, to protect him and bear him away, he felt power surge through his own spirit. The _fána_ that his will shaped was taller and stronger than his usual form, lit from within by a blue steady flame that burned cool, as much air and water as fire. He stepped forward, as his nature dictated in that moment he must.

“What did he give you, Gothmog?” Sérelókë called out in a voice meant to carry. “What did he promise you? What claim does he have on the Maiar of Aulë? Is it the desire to create - after all, did Aulë himself not overstep his bounds? Ah, but it was forgiven since he acted out of love, and the sheer joy of making. Or so we are supposed to believe. What was in it for you? There is no love of creation in you. Forge-fire of the world! Mover of stones, smelter of mountains!”

The Balrog turned aside from the victory he gloated upon, blazing eyes fixed now on Sérelókë. Gothmog brandished his weapons with boastful joy, and his mouth opened in a vast predatory chasm of a grin, full of sharp teeth like new-forged blades.

“I delight in war. I delight in fear and pain. Much opportunity does He grant me,” said Gothmog, seeming not to mind as Fëanor’s sons bore their father away with little further fight. Gothmog’s damage was done, Sérelókë could see, and nothing now could hold Fëanor’s bright spirit within the confines of his ruined body. But there was still much Sérelókë could learn from Gothmog, and if occupying his attention had the side effect of allowing some survivors to escape, then so be it. 

“So it is pain that you love, is it?” Sérelókë said, eyes of blue fire narrowing, the staff in his right hand turning into a scourge of many tails to match and master Gothmog’s own flaming flail, dripping silver sparks. Keeping his sword at hand, utterly uninterested in using it, he focused everything on his own multi-tailed whip and let it stretch and shimmer and strengthen, growing peaks of ice at its tongue-tips, tendrils flowing cool and clear. _Ossë,_ he thought. _Not to be trusted, but Uinen keeps him right. They lend their aid, perhaps because it amuses them. Perhaps I will swim with them one day._ Sérelókë felt his ridiculous new fána’s face twisting into a mask of fierce delight as he spun the whip round and sliced the air with a snap of his wrist. “Do you only torment others, or can you appreciate the pleasure of receiving it yourself?”

Gothmog laughed deep and dark, bubbling magma and hissing steam. “There is only One who can hurt me as I require.”

Sérelókë laughed. “We shall see about that!”

“Do you dare to challenge Melkor himself?”

“I do not - I don’t see him here, do you?” Sérelókë sneered, sensing a weak spot. “He hides in his throne room and unleashes the likes of you to do his gruesome work. I challenge _you.”_

Gothmog’s roar was as much delight as wrath, and Sérelókë thrilled to hear it, feinting forward and dodging gracefully as the great black axe swung at his neck, passing through air with a harmless but haunting howl. So Gothmog would want to expend some of his energy playing with weapons then - well, Sérelókë could indulge him there. The Balrog’s flame had already dimmed slightly but noticeably in his thrashing of Fëanor, and perhaps he was not up to the elevated standards of his boasting. Sérelókë was fresh and nimble, and his aura of wind and water took less power to maintain.

And as they whirled and danced, he found that Gothmog clearly expected his axe could break Sérelókë’s sword and was proven wrong time again and again, which meant that he did not think quickly enough to adapt his strategy. A bit of a disappointment, but expected, as Melkor was unlikely to keep too many thralls who could outthink him. Sérelókë found Gothmog was mighty, but limited in scope. Clearly the Balrog had never gone up against a truly clever opponent one-on-one before, or in so long as made no difference.

Whip and sword, whip and ax clashed and missed. Gothmog’s wings were more insubstantial than they first appeared, made of shadow and flame as much as muscle and bone and leathery skin. If Gothmog could fly at all, it would not be very high or for very long. They could be vulnerable in battle, but they could also be useful for spreading sheets of fire and and waves of smoke to burn and choke and blind. Sérelókë surmised that they functioned mostly as a sort of bellows to bring more air across his ember skin when his light and heat got too low. 

And of course, as he had known from study of the kind, a form of plumage to be used in indescribable mating displays - dormant and hidden the rest of the season, and even Sérelókë did not know how long the mating season of the Valaraukar might be, nor was he certain he had any idea what a female might look like.

After all, any observer with functioning eyes would not need the wings to tell that Gothmog was very much male and in a state of full physical excitement. The combination of the season of heat - even more heat than usual - come upon him, and the raw pleasure of rending and burning and killing, had clearly worked on Gothmog potently. That was an impressive weapon he wielded, far more frightening than the black axe or the whip of fire, and made it all the more important that Sérelókë win this match - for though he supposed he might not be averse to someday experiencing his own secret arts from the other perspective, he would not choose to do it now, impaled upon that molten stalactite.

For all that Gothmog’s form was as a mockery of the shape worn by the male Ainur and the Children alike, it had a terrible beauty, not least of all in that deadly member and its heavy dangling coals beneath. Gothmog had already realized that this rather tedious battle was only a prelude to the more rarefied challenge Sérelókë was offering. What Sérelókë lacked in brute force, he made up for in agility and grace, altering the density of his form by turns as he leapt high to strike a blow and then crashed to the ground, shaking the broken stones that littered their field of battle. Now he was wont to imbue his movements with a dancer’s turn when he could, putting his cunningly crafted assets on swaying, rippling display.

He thought Gothmog may have caught a hint of this intention and was not entirely opposed to it, for those baleful, glowing eyes moved boldly all over Sérelókë’s form now, and he was minded to give the Balrog a good view, abandoning all pretense of the illusion of clothing. With a twist that felt nearly flirtatious, Sérelókë deliberately over-reached, feigning slowness, and let the whip of fire rake his shoulder. The burning filaments wrapped and tried to ensnare him, and yet he rolled away free of them, hissing in sincere (glorious, stinging, burning, purifying) pain and yet exaggerating the effect of his wounding.

That enabled Sérelókë to surprise Gothmog when Sérelókë came up swinging, keeping his sword out of the fray and yet at the ready, and distracting Gothmog with the glint of light at its edge. Tracking Gothmog’s gaze, Sérelókë lashed out with a delicate strike, using his whip of cool blue light to deliver a flicking sting to Gothmog’s rampant member - one swift kiss of cold at the slit, just enough to bite - and then dancing away again. 

Gothmog gave a startled roar, at much as the audacity of the strike’s placement as at the pain. He turned to face Sérelókë, curling jets of superheated air spewing from his nostrils as he huffed like a bull, and he split his fierce mouth into a deadly grin, showing rows of sharp red teeth. “You dare?” 

“Oh yes,” Sérelókë said, letting his tongue slide across his lips - such as they were, cool and blue - “I dare.” This time he stood nearly still for Gothmog’s whip-strike, and he let it pass right through him, hardly acknowledging the lines it burned black across his chest. The marks pulsed with searing pain for a moment and faded to grey, absorbed into the ethereal shifting of Sérelókë’s loosely-constructed approximation of flesh. 

From the corner of his eye Sérelókë glanced behind him, and the scramblings of Elves and Orcs on the battlefield seemed small and far away. Dangerous to be distracted now. The Elves who could take care of themselves would do so, and those who could not were now beyond him. 

Forcefully Sérelókë shoved away thoughts of one in particular, who was nearby although he had never been of Fëanor’s company, and turned all his focus upon Gothmog. “You are of the Ainur as am I, fallen into shadow because you caught the eye of a Vala, and not just any Vala, no - He Who Arises in Might himself. I’m sure he does exactly that with you, doesn’t he? Burns his coal in your furnace? Ah, but then there was that other Aulendil, the pretty one - what was his name? Fairer and fouler and fiercer even than you, and for now he has taken your place. But no one has a place with _him,_ nothing they can trust.” Sérelókë braced himself for another whip-strike, dodging aside to avoid its strangling wrap around his throat, catching it in the chest again instead. He closed his eyes and shivered, tempted for a moment to let that delightful brutality take him over.

Show willing, that was all Sérelókë needed to do, just for a moment. And then he pressed his own advance. Something that felt like the cool rush of a white-watered river flowed through his whip arm, brightened the ice at the tips of each lash, and suffused Sérelókë with a sense of power that pulsed cool but strong. Renewed and refreshed, Sérelókë advanced upon Gothmog with a fierce and frenzied smile and a primal hunger he felt no shame to let show in his body.  
The hunger of the conquest, the delight of subduing. Sérelókë nearly let Gothmog repeat his own maneuver back upon him with a flick of the whip of fire at the juncture of his thighs, but he spun aside and just felt one burning kiss graze his hip, inflaming him.

They were fairly well-matched in this showpiece of a battle, and both were drawing on a power greater than their own. Sérelókë knew this fight could go to stalemate for ages before Gothmog finally was able to admit what he wanted - for his blazing eyes gazed at his true object, and his whip tried to strike it, and once nearly succeeded. Then Sérelókë was actually forced to cut with his sword at Gothmog’s hand, drawing black blood that hissed and steamed in the dust.

On the back swing with his whip Sérelókë caught Gothmog full across the throat and let the tails wrap, and the Balrog roared as cool blue veins broke out in his neck, darkening the embers of his skin. Sérelókë drew his whip back, pulling Gothmog along by it - and then he flicked his wrist and snapped free before the black axe could hew his arm. A quick dart of Sérelókë’s sword distracted Gothmog long enough that Sérelókë could strike a chilling whip-blow that burned with cold around the Balrog’s mighty thigh, causing him to stumble a moment - and then return full of fresh fire.

His arts now stretched nearly to their limit, Sérelókë leaned into the heat, protected by the sense-memory of the bone-biting Helcaraxë, the crisp revitalizing winds of Taniquetil that carried the great Eagles on the errands of Manwë. These still whirled fresh and clear where Sérelókë carried them in the winding halls of his mind, and shielded him some from the toxic gases of Angband. Gothmog’s heat was a beacon that drew him; entranced now as he was by the patterns made by the tails of his whip as he struck again. Still wary of that terrible axe, one part of his thought forever upon it, he saw that it sagged and dragged as if its wielder had nearly forgotten it. With another part of his sight, Sérelókë kept his attention fixed on Gothmog’s mighty prick, watching it as well for signs of waning attention. There were none. Good. Very good.

“You cannot hide your true desire from me,” Sérelókë said as he accepted another of Gothmog’s strikes, absorbing the pain easily now - “You are neglected by your Master in favor of another, and you are clearly come into your season of rut. You find no satisfaction in venting your lust upon these thralls - they break and burn too easily, and even the Trolls cannot please you, being little better than humping rocks.”

“And you think you are the one to give me relief?” Gothmog growled, black axe at the ready. “You, freshly come from Valinor with the stink of the Valar upon you, weak and pure, you who would faint and fade if ever you saw our thrall-pits and our playrooms? I who reshaped the roots of the mountains, I who drove off the great spider when she threatened our Master.”

“Ungoliant, I remember her well,” Sérelókë said in deep, leering voice, a deadly grin overtaking it. “How she quivered in her bonds when I trapped her. How she reached for me with all eight legs, wanting more of what I gave her. How I tormented her and pleasured her - and how I escaped her. I am alive to challenge you now, not dissolved in her belly. Will you not now credit my worthiness?”

Boldly now did Sérelókë display himself - the shimmering sinews of breast and thigh, the speed and sharpness of his strike, the lusty feyness of his gaze. He grew in brightness as Gothmog’s eyes followed the lines of his hips to the arrogant jut of his cock. Not as ostentatiously large, but it need not be - it need only be ready and eager and unwithering in the face of a Balrog’s natural emanation of fear. “Come to me, Gothmog. I cannot give you true release, you whose true name is lost, but I can give you relief. Not from pain, but through it.”

Gothmog seemed to ponder this, but in truth he only bode his time and feigned his thinking to gather strength for one great axe strike, meant to cleave Sérelókë in two. But it was foreseen, and it was checked with a jab of sword - now shining ice that pierced the Balrog’s shoulder and froze his arm, leaving him howling as the axe tumbled to the ground, and lines of cold blue followed each curve and weave of muscle from his shoulder to his hand. 

“See you now what I can do?” Sérelókë said then, following his sword arm up into the curve of Gothmog’s arm, feeling that inner fire turn his cool humid aura into steam, shivering a little with its deadly pleasure. Sérelókë released his blade from the place it had stuck, and Gothmog whimpered just one moment in relief as his heat kindled again and his pinned fingers came back to life with stings and tingles. No sooner had Gothmog finished enjoying that sensation when he felt Sérelókë’s cold hand about his throat. Not squeezing, simply chilling, letting his watery force cool Gothmog’s lifeblood and turn the very air in his lungs to winter. Fire purified, but so did ice.

And now that Gothmog was bladeless - and Sérelókë did not imagine for one moment that some part of Gothmog’s will had not played a role in that too-easy disarming - Sérelókë felt now no hesitation in letting the head of his cock stroke Gothmog’s hip, cool seeking heat, giving himself a stinging pleasure with each small suggestive stroke. Oh, he looked forward to this - for how would Gothmog look bound and begging, how intense his searing heat inside…

Sérelókë’s mind raced ahead in an excess of words and visions: muscle, sinew, lashed buttocks, begging - Melkor had seduced Gothmog by violence, slammed him down a mountainside until his pride broke, lying willing and spread-thighed in the wreckage, willing to beg and loving the debasement of begging. _That is not how I shall conquer him, no - I am knowledge, I am lore, I am memory and foresight, I am doubt._

He and Gothmog circled each other now, a tense and heavy sort of dance, with fixed and flickering eyes, twitching whips swirling the air in red and blue. A warrior’s stalk it might appear, but well both knew it was a courtship dance now, a dangerous manifestation of desire. 

“Was that satisfying? You killed him. He won’t survive. You know that. But you didn’t kill them all - would you, even if you could?”

“I could have done,” Gothmog said, the hot wind of his breath coiling in Sérelókë’s hair. “Easily I could have. They drove the Orcs before them like cattle, and even my troll guard could not stand against them. But I am Valaraukar. I could have ended them all.”

“As I suspected,” Sérelókë said, leaning in now, drawing the circle tighter. “You do not want the game to end too soon. Or perhaps your Master does not.” Sérelókë neglected to mention that Gothmog had very little army left, and Fëanor had seven strong sons who could have given him more of a battle than he’d actually fought. There would come another time, though, that was certain.

“The end will come for them.”

“Oh yes, yes it will,” Sérelókë said. “But you get bored, do you not?” He threaded a strain of his Will into his words, husky, inviting, slightly mocking.

“Do you come to cure my boredom?” said the Balrog, advancing, leering, pointing his rampant cock forward as a promise and a threat.

“To relieve it for a time, perhaps, but do not underestimate my own,” said Sérelókë, and put forth a small blue puff of fire from the palm of his left hand, which Gothmog’s eyes tracked, helpless, unresisting.

And then Sérelókë’s whip struck, an artful turn of his wrist to spin the whip just right so that its tails obeyed his commands, reaching out like searching, grasping fingers. As an extension of himself the long tails wrapped like vines around Gothmog’s burning member, cooling it and grasping it and sending a few drops of a molten red fluid tripping to the ground as the Balrog howled and lashed out at Sérelókë with claws and wings at once.

A mistake, a miscalculation, for what Sérelókë lacked in force he made up for in speed, and one of his hands bunched in the delicate leather of Gothmog’s right wing, its long bat-like bones grinding in his grip. He squeezed, and savored a sound like steam hissing, a gasp of pain, a flash of fear from one more used to causing it than feeling it. He twisted, and leaned into the burn of it rather than away, as the edge of Gothmog’s wing fluttered against him. With a grunt, Sérelókë pressed Gothmog ahead of him, toward the wall of stone. He drew his whip hand back, tightening its coils around Gothmog’s massive prick, and through his shimmering, shifting skin Sérelókë wove every memory he had of cool water - waterfalls, rain, the frigid sea of the Helcaraxë with its deadly blades of grinding ice.

Steam poured from Gothmog’s back as Sérelókë pushed in, pressing against him, pinning his wings and raking his belly with icy claws he’d willed himself to grow, breathing chill, damp fog against the thick sinews of his neck. Gothmog’s horns struck the cliff face as he thrashed and roared.

“Does it hurt?” Sérelókë demanded, panting now and letting himself rut against Gothmog’s hot cleft, his member prodding at the base of the Balrog’s tail. “Did you doubt that I could hurt you? That I could make you moan and roar for me?” He jerked the handle of the whip hard, and felt Gothmog lurch against him, pinned flat to the stone.

“I am . . . Not displeased,” Gothmog growled. “You’ve begun well. Can you follow through, little Maia?”

“Not so little,” Sérelókë snarled, shoving against him. No, not so little. Gothmog lifted his rear instinctively like the beast in heat that he was. And if this was not quite the relief his body was shaped to expect, Sérelókë thought that he still would take it in his time of need. Slowly, guardedly, knowing this moment of relaxation was a dangerous one, Sérelókë let the whip uncoil from Gothmog’s cock, waiting for the warning of movement in the Balrog’s back and shoulders.

The expected attack came from an unexpected quarter, as Gothmog’s tail whipped around suddenly, its sharp barb lashing Sérelókë across the backs of his thighs. Sérelókë shouted, in surprise as much as pain, feeling the stinging burn peak and then subside as he diverted some of his will to cool and soothe it. 

“Now,” Sérelókë said in a low, dangerous voice, scraping sharp teeth across Gothmog’s ear and reaching forward to grasp him at the base of one of his horns, to shake his head against the stone. “I am a little bit angry with you.” For just a second he dodged his hips away, enough to lash Gothmog between his legs, tips of ice clawing his bollocks with cold. Gothmog whined and jerked. Yet his struggle was not entirely earnest - it was more of a ripple of his spine and a shiver of wings, sending sparks and steam showering down over Sérelókë’s chest and hips.

With a gnash of his teeth, Sérelókë thrust forward, giving Gothmog a push against his firm, tight rear end beneath his tail, daring to spare a hand to grasp him there, raking the back of his thigh with cold claws. He was taking a lot of risks. Gothmog could throw him off balance if he pushed against the cliff wall just right, could even knock him aside enough to leave him open and cause some damage. The simple fact that he was choosing not to told Sérelókë a great deal - that he had almost won. He could not plunge too soon, could not let Gothmog know that he’d sensed the surrender just yet.

So Sérelókë leaned forward and studied the curve of Gothmog’s shoulder beyond the beating, struggling wings that he’d crushed between their bodies. He found the right spot, the thinnest, most graceful hump of the upper curve, and he bent to test it - he made his tongue long and pointed, and as cold as he could - there, there, a small experimental lick, and Gothmog groaned. There. He tasted of sulfur and roast meat, he smelled of charcoal and the hot smoke of blazing wood. Sérelókë gave him a bite, sharpened by his will, needles of ice latching into the flesh and letting the burn absorb within him.

Gothmog shuddered violently as Sérelókë continued to move his mouth, in little stinging nips as he crept his hand around, scraping his knuckles on stone and leaving little trails of cold water, scratching at Gothmog’s chest, marking his flesh with sharp nails.

Was this it? Sérelókë wondered. Can’t possibly be all he has to give - he can’t possibly give it up this easily, can he? Melkor must have him trained better than Sérelókë would ever have thought - and neglected him sorely. To break a thrall to command so thoroughly, and then leave him with no satisfaction for his needs, no commands but the purely utilitarian one any war strategist could generate in his sleep - well, Sérelókë now thought even less of Melkor than before.

And as Sérelókë rippled his spine, pressing as much of his cold flesh against the Balrog as he could, relishing the brief agonizing burst of burning with every rolling motion, he noticed something else - he would have thought that Gothmog would have at least attempted to change his form by now. Instead, he relied on brute strength, trying to strike with spike-clawed wings and spear-tipped tail, reaching back with his great hands so easily caught and pinned, whip of fire only occasionally striking home now, as much by accident as by design. And then he realized fully what that meant.

“You are trapped in this form, aren’t you?” Sérelókë muttered, his voice a deceptively kind crooning in Gothmog’s ear as he bit it again and again, tasting sulfur and smoke. “Your Master’s will weights you and holds you in place. Even these very stones that you shaped for him, the flesh that you risk and the blood that you shed for him - it binds you, it shapes you.” He pressed in and touched the stone wall under Gothmog’s hand. With his hand, he tested it, and with his will, it moved, only slightly, until Gothmog pushed it back in place. “As forms to be bound in go, you could do far worse,” Sérelókë purred. “I rather like it. I wonder if I could fashion one similar. Oh, but I would not try it now, for that would be to give up my advantage.”

“Advantage,” Gothmog sneered. “You have no advantage.”

“You’re wrong. I do,” Sérelókë said, and seized Gothmog by the wrists, pressing his huge clawed hands up against the stone. Again the stones moved, and this time Sérelókë had control as rock rose up around Gothmog’s arms, binding him there.

Gothmog roared in fury, but his hindquarters spoke differently, rising up against Sérelókë’s loins as the Balrog’s huge clawed feet dug in the dust and raised him up on his toes.

With that movement, Sérelókë was aligned well, and he felt it - the crinkled tightness of Gothmog’s entrance was well-positioned at the head of him, and Gothmog was all but begging for it.

Sérelókë drew his hips back, with-holding. What they both wanted was not yet quite earned. Nor would he be caught quite so unawares yet.

Sérelókë pressed the handle of his whip of cold wet light against Gothmog’s throat, just under his ear. There was a thick miasma of hissing steam, and Sérelókë pushed Gothmog’s head forward, until his horns melted the stone, and Sérelókë froze the edges around him, holding him tight. “Do you now doubt my advantage? Will you even now deny my mastery?”

Gothmog said nothing, but writhed, and Sérelókë thought perhaps he could not tell the difference between agony and longing, or perhaps there was none anymore. “Ah,” Sérelókë said. “You cannot speak the truth. You are afraid. You are afraid that your Lord will hear you confess your submission to another - even where he cowers in his throne room far beneath the mountainside. You believe his control of you is so complete, and that you can do nothing but he will know of it. You believe he will call you weakling, and traitor, and torment you as he has never done before. That you will beg for death, and perhaps you both will learn to your grief that he cannot give it.”

“He could,” Gothmog growled, shivering under the cold pressure of Sérelókë’s forcing weight against his back. His wings tried to close in on themselves against the onslaught of cold, but they could not, for Sérelókë’s body held them splayed, twitching. “He could kill us both with a thought, do you doubt that?”

“I do doubt it,” Sérelókë said. “I wonder at you, for our kind are not accustomed to being trapped in immutable bodies. And yet I sense your fear, as I temporarily damage yours. You’ll recover quickly. But you will not just change form to avoid injury. That must be because you cannot.”

“Or because I desire it,” Gothmog hissed.

“Convenient fiction,” Sérelókë growled. “But I am glad that at last you spoke the words I so longed to hear.” Viciously he yanked on Gothmog’s tail, sinking nails of ice into the fire-scaled skin, and Gothmog gave a cry that shook the stone. This angled Gothmog’s body just right, and the Balrog stayed in position quite willingly, helplessly eager in the throes of his painful need.

Sérelókë and Gothmog both screamed as Sérelókë’s member sought out Gothmog’s entrance and drove home. One was cold, so cold; the other hot, so hot. The rending, exquisite pain was perfectly shared for a long, long shuddering cry that must have reached the ears of Melkor himself below the earth, might even have carried as an eagle-shrieked rumor to the heights of Taniquetil.

Sérelókë shuddered for a moment then held still, feeling Gothmog writhe upon him, angling for more. Forcefully he shoved the Balrog against the wall of stone and dug his icy claws into the back of one burning thigh, hoisting him up higher. “Beg for it,” Sérelókë growled, low and commanding, and felt the rush of the secret fire flow through him in its ice cold purity, throat to loins and back again, making Gothmog tremble with the pain. “Beg for what I can give you, or I shall not give it.”

“You shall give it,” Gothmog groaned, face muffled by the sheer stone cliff that was beginning to steam and seethe beneath his desperate breath. “You must. With all that have you have. If you wish to destroy me, it will take more than this act.”

“Fool,” Sérelókë said, smiling wildly and testing with his arm for room to flick his whip. “You see. You hear. You feel-” and with this, he gave a snap of his hips for emphasis, driving his cock slightly deeper into Gothmog’s steaming grotto. “and yet you do not observe. Destroy you? No. No, that is not my object. Ruin you for the touch of any other for a good long while, perhaps. Send you back to your master with a message.”

Gothmog moaned again as Sérelókë’s blows began to lick his skin once more, writhing in terrible delight. “Come with us,” he said, his voice beginning to crack beneath the strain of his pleasure. “Join us. Imagine . . . your power. My lord would . . . take such delight in you . . . the torments of our . . . dungeons would please you.”

“No,” Sérelókë murmured, and wove his voice into his sharp bites to the back of Gothmog’s neck, his controlling grasp on one hard carving horn. “No. If your master wants me, he must come and find me himself. That is my message to him. But I do not speak to him now. I speak to you. Beg and I shall give you what we both desire.”

Gothmog made a terrible sound then, for his yearning was at odds with his orders - for long ages now he had spoken no supplicating word, but to One only. To yield to another with his pleas, that would drift a rift into the very heart of the order of Angband. That was the very reason Sérelókë had demanded it, was it not? Or was it simply the Maia’s domineering pride?

Sérelókë wrapped the whip’s silver tails across Gothmog’s throat and drew tight, feeling the Balrog quiver and shake against him as the mighty chest struggled to expand and take in air. The reeking mists of smoke had dispelled, and the air Gothmog’s lungs strained for was crisp and cold and clean and searing, painful to his struggling gasps. Sérelókë released him a moment and then tightened his grip again. “Beg,” was all he said, pulling his hips back and letting his thick member drag and stretch within Gothmog’s passage. “Just beg, as your heart desires.”

The Balrog’s body seemed to shake with his struggle, with a terrible tension of sinew and bone as his wings shivered in vain and his spine rippled sinuously, as if he wished to both escape Sérelókë’ completely and also draw him in as far as he could go.

Sérelókë leaned in, nuzzled Gothmog’s ear in a nearly gentle gesture. With a snarl, he snapped his teeth upon it. Gothmog howled, and the earth shook.

“Please,” came Gothmog’s hiss, like escaping steam - a low sound, a hidden and a desperate one, a long quiet cry from the depths of his throat. “Please.”

“Did I not promise?” Sérelókë said, his voice low and dark, and beginning to break a little with the strain of his own pleasure, throbbing between his thighs as Gothmog’s tight heat gripped him. “I keep my word. You would do well to remember this, when you are subject to the whims of he who does not.” He pressed in then, and with his free hand he cupped Gothmog’s hanging, burning bollocks, squeezing and rolling them as he gave a hard, sharp thrust inside - and then another and another until his lower belly slapped the base of Gothmog’s tail and the whole aching length of him stretched Gothmog open.

The sounds the Balrog made were high and piercing. “Yes, yes,” was the rough meaning of them, and yet his voice was choked, as though his joy was much begrudged. As though a force were working upon him to deny the shameless free expression of his pleasure.

So even as Sérelókë swived him in the full power of his nature, and relished the searing burn of the fiery clench upon his member with each spasm of ecstasy, he sensed that Gothmog’s body had become a field of struggle in which the Balrog was no longer the true rival he faced. Sérelókë clenched his teeth as he fought for clarity, fought to hold off his own climax. His eyes narrowed as he detached a small shard of his thought, to speak to another. _You see me, yes,_ he said silently to the one who watched. _And I see you. So behold me and my works. Witness me taking charge of your servant. Vent not your cruelty upon him, for he is now my thrall but soon will again be yours. I send him back to you with this memory. If you seek vengeance for your pride, come and find me._

Sérelókë’s hand moved but a little, enough to wrap its large cold grasp around the mighty column of hot stone at the base of Gothmog’s belly. With every stab of his own cock inside, Sérelókë worked Gothmog’s shaft with a stinging, twisting squeeze.

The surface of Gothmog’s prick was soft as molten stone, and what lay beneath was hard and hot as new-forged iron. The rhythm of the tugs and pulls came as natural art to Sérelókë, and their pants and gasps aligned. Sérelókë drew in breath sharply as he felt his own crisis building, heightened by the knowledge that he would hurt Gothmog sore when his own essence spilled into him, for that would be cold as the waters of the Helcaraxë. Therefore it would be kind to ease that sting by making sure they reached their peak together. Sérelókë stroked harder - and twisted around that slickened cockhead as he gasped and closed his own eyes and fell, into the brief abyss of that particular shining oblivion.

Molten magma it was that burned the rock wall in hot jets as Gothmog roared out his agony and relief in his release, red and black streams of liquid stone that ran harmlessly around Sérelókë’s feet.

 

***

 

For all his experience in war, for the all the terrible deaths he had witnessed as in his work as a healer, Iaun had nothing to compare to the passing of Fëanor as his sons bore him away. Bodies simply did not do that, falling to ash as if consumed from within. 

Yet he did not dwell on this horror, for soon his attention was all consumed by the battle between the Balrog and the entity he barely recognized as his own companion of the road. 

Mesmerized, Iaun watched. Reluctantly, he swung down from the back of Certhasath but kept his hands on the horse’s neck watching in amazement. Truly, he felt he was witnessing a clash of legends. Yet the tales he had been told in his youth of daring feats of strength had not involved nearly so much . . . bold and unashamed arousal on display as both boast and threat. Even warriors’ tales, bawdy as they could be, kept veils more decently drawn.

Glad he was now to be no longer be astride that shrewd and knowing horse. What he was seeing shook the earth beneath his feet and all the certainties of his heart. For all that his heart pounded in terror for his friend’s sake and his hands itched to string useless arrows, a throbbing between his legs was a rising, forceful treachery.

Iaun leaned forward as far as he dared between the rifts in the rocks. He watched the conflict between silver and red, water and fire, heard the grunts and cries and curses of physical battle, though his ears could not discern the words that passed between the fighters.

He was out of his depth. He had nothing to contribute, no possible way of helping.

Long did the conflict of whip and curse and veiled speech continue - and long did Iaun’s eye linger on strong bodies limned in fire and ice, and shameless display of proud male organs between great elemental-muscled thighs. Long did Iaun’s hand press against his own yearning, firming flesh, unwilling to relax his watch for long enough to take relief, yet also unable to stoically ignore its craving.

And in time he opened his breeches and took himself in hand as he watched Gothmog mastered, the mighty head bowed and back and shoulders spread and bared in supplication, the glowing wings that sparked embers opened and lowered. With his own desperate staff of flesh all a-throb and aching, Iaun heard the Balrog’s cry of terrible ecstasy as he submitted to the lightning blows of the whip of ice. And as the Balrog lifted his tail and presented himself - and as Sérelókë did the unthinkable - pressing into him, accepting that dread offer, taking him - Iaun’s knees buckled and he leaned against the stone, stroking himself helplessly.

Long had it been since Iaun had felt any intimate touch but his own, too long. Even longer since he’d known a companion who could read his most veiled desires, and feared not the ones that shamed him most. That was the reason his need overwhelmed him so quickly at that sight, why his desire drowned out all trace of revulsion or fear and intermingled with his awe to bring him so close to crisis in such desperate haste - or so he was wont to believe in that moment.

His own strong but simple body was not made to survive the violent entangling he was watching. Sérelókë and the Balrog promised death with every thrust and roar - and yet all of Iaun’s flesh was wracked with aches of longing that began between his thighs and quickly took him over entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite appearances, the "Interspecies" tag on this story actually applies to the relations between Sérelókë and _Iaun,_ not Gothmog.
> 
> Sérelókë and Gothmog are technically the same species; they are both Maiar.


	6. Study in Flesh and Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wary and slow to trust he may be, but Iaun finds himself quick and reckless in desire - which is not at all the same thing. (An Elf is not _quite_ so dangerous to seduce as a Balrog, but there is patience and artistry required in doing it properly.)

Long did Iaun stand there by the stones, shuddering and gasping for breath in the slowly-clearing air. He wiped his hand on the inside of his cloak, fearing nonetheless that there would be no hiding the stains of his stolen pleasure if Sérelókë’s full powers of observation were turned upon him.

Yet he scolded himself for thinking only of his own shame, when he watched that tall, mighty entity slowly fade - whip arm lowering till the flail-ends trailed on the ground, a fleeting image of silver streaks in the bloody dust.

The dust whipped up then as the outline vanished, and a small, slow whirlwind swirled across the field, ruffling the hair of corpses. It seemed to linger for a moment as the Balrog limped towards the forbidding black gates, and then as Gothmog turned, it seemed to dissipate.

It reappeared startlingly close to Iaun, and Iaun felt it in his hair like a touch, a breeze shivering his cloak back, and then a tingling sensation upon his skin and a hint of grit in his eyes. He closed them in reflex.

When he opened them again, Sérelókë lay at Iaun’s feet in his Eldar form, his fine clothing returned to him, if slightly ragged, and his chest heaving.

Iaun rushed to kneel by his side, but Sérelókë was already sitting up, running a shaking hand through his wild tangled hair tamped by the sweat of his exertion. He was smiling. “There you are, Iaun,” he said at the last. “You may have some hidden skill in observation after all, for it appears to me that you found a vantage point in safety, and missed not a moment of my victory.”

“I . . . was aided in that,” Iaun managed to admit as his face flushed hot.

“Yes, a steed of Oromë would be clever that way,” Sérelókë said, and now he seemed all recovered and the twist of his mouth was mirthful. Yet he slumped a little as he tried to rise to his feet, leaning at last upon his elbows in the dust. Iaun judged exhaustion the most likely cause, so he stood again, and reached out a hand to help Sérelókë to his feet. Sérelókë took it firmly and swiftly lifted himself as Certhasath trotted over to meet them.

“So . . . “ Iaun spoke again at last, once he had found his courage, after what seemed to him many turnings of the stars. “The Balrog . . . you . . . did that with . . . “

“Yes…?” Sérelókë said, after a pause that was nearly as long.

“Was, er . . . “ Iaun now resolved to blurt this quickly. “Was male.”

There was perhaps a half a star-turning before Sérelókë chuckled, low and deep. “Sound analysis. But I might wish for you to go deeper.” He gave Iaun a sideways glance.

“As are you. Male, I mean,” Iaun said quickly, longing to return that glance, and yet afraid.

“Well-spotted, thank you,” Sérelókë said.

“Of course I mean no imprecation,” Iaun babbled, “I mean, of course you must have noticed I am male myself….”

“I had noticed,” said Sérelókë with a longer gaze, and Iaun could no longer deny its lingering. “Now that we’ve established that the masculine form is not uncommon, I have to ask you what you hope to discern by such obvious statements.”

“Is . . . that common? In Valinor? Male with male? Female with female? Here, it is . . . sometimes done, but it is rare.”

Sérelókë fixed Iaun with a blazing stare before he nearly fell to the ground again with the force of the laughter that overtook him.

“I cannot believe . . . That you just witnessed me fucking one of the Valaraukar . . . And all you can think about . . . is that he was male! Though it was true, if I’d had a female . . . No.”

“Wait,” Iaun said, his pensive mood now changed. “There are female Balrogs?”

“Yes, of course there must be,” Sérelókë shouted, laughing. “Three or four that I know of. That idea frightens me far more!”

Sérelókë crossed his arms over his chest as laughter wracked him. Then for a moment his face crumpled as he clasped his own shoulder, and Iaun bristled at his sign of pain. Iaun called Certhasath close, wanting nothing more than to reach a safe place to rest. Obviously even Sérelókë was wounded and weary from his . . . trials. And any place of relative safety must be somewhere far from here.

Iaun mounted the horse without a thought to his scars, and started to reach a hand down to help Sérelókë up. Certhasath would bear them both anywhere they wished to go, as long as it was far from this place of death, he could read the horse that well at least. Certhasath had no more wish to linger here than Iaun did - of the Valar or not, like all horses he would want wholesome meadows to run in, fresh grass to eat; Yavanna’s gifts healthy and untainted, Manwë’s clean air to breathe, and none of those would be found in any quantity in this hostile and desolate place.

But Iaun hesitated and considered how the horse’s back should be allotted. He feared that, whether Sérelókë mounted in front of him or behind, there would be further rising of the knowledge of their mutual maleness, for although the worst of his desire had found recent relief, it would soon return again in force, with Sérelókë so close. 

Now that Iaun knew that their sameness alone was not enough reason to lock away his desire, he feared even more to reveal it. He was small, he was crippled, he could not hope to be a fit match for Sérelókë’s wisdom and power. Sérelókë could be cruel, and he could also be kind, and Iaun did not know which type of disavowal he feared more.

Iaun resolved to make sure that Sérelókë rode behind him then, for if he rode afore, Iaun knew his own spire of courtship would manifest its vain hopes against Sérelókë’s body, and Sérelókë would perceive it quickly, and then Sérelókë might deem that he must take that moment say yea or nay. Iaun had not yet proved himself worthy, he knew, and scarce dared to hope that he ever might.

Certhasath wasn’t even his horse and Iaun knew it was not his place to decide. But as a healer, Iaun perceived that Sérelókë had the appearance of one winded and exhausted and riddled with many small wounds he did not deign to speak of, but still would need tending sooner or later, and Iaun wanted it to be sooner. And safety was yet far away. Iaun held out his hand. Sérelókë took it, and mounted behind him.

“Where shall we go now?” Iaun asked, grateful to ask such a simple question and push aside all the others.

“Doriath,” Sérelókë said, sliding his hands around Iaun’s waist. “And since you did not ask, I agree to ride behind because if you were at my back, you would see nothing. This way, there are six eyes to watch the road, not just four.”

Iaun could not miss the smile in his voice. “Doriath,” Iaun said “That’s ambitious. One cannot simply walk into that realm unbidden, nor can hope alone win one’s way within. There are guardians of stern aspect, and mazes to wander, where many have gone astray forever. There are tests of fearsome challenge, and above all the will of the lady who defends it.”

“I would expect no less,” said Sérelókë.

Iaun tried to ignore the steady rhythmic brush of Sérelókë’s thighs against his own with each of the horse’s movements, and the solid warmth that sometimes leaned against his back, the long-fingered hands that rested lightly on his sides to keep them both steady.

What frightened Iaun most was not the battle of wills Sérelókë had just won, or even the rather disturbing and violent congress that had followed - it was the changes Sérelókë had undergone, altering his body with the power of his thought into a being of terrifying power. 

Certhasath huffed in relief and picked up speed as the ground leveled out. Though they wished to move briskly, there was now no urgent need, and therefore they could afford to take the long way round through the forest of Brethil.

Finally, Iaun brought himself to speak, as Sérelókë’s long arm reached around him to lightly tug on Certhasath’s mane, nudging him slightly to the west. Iaun felt a long leg behind him tighten and release against the horse’s sides, a slight canting of Sérelókë’s hips to counterbalance. Sérelókë’s body felt so solid and real against his back, not at all different from his own, and if he allowed himself, Iaun could push what he had seen back into the dusty reaches of his mind where he put so many things that he wished to forget.

But Sérelókë would not be well pleased by that. Sérelókë liked to have knowledge, the truth, out in the open. And Iaun could see the merit to it.

“You told Gothmog he was like you,” Iaun said. “That you and he are the same.”

“We once were,” Sérelókë said.

“So you are not-“ it seemed silly now, but Iaun had entertained the possibility. “A Vala yourself.”

Sérelókë laughed quietly, and Iaun could feel it against his back, a softly jerking vibration. “No, Iaun, I am not. I am a run-of-the-mill garden-variety Maia, sprung from the thought of Eru Ilúvatar in the same moment as the Valar, but of considerably lesser rank. We are legion, we take many forms, and not all of us are content with our lot.”

“You can change your body at will!”

“Yes,” Sérelókë said, “And now that I have given it deep thought, and seen its consequences in action, it’s worrisome to me that the Children of Ilúvatar cannot. It really is a useful ability.”

Iaun pondered this for a moment. “Well, I certainly was impressed by the use you made of it.” He let this hang in the air for a moment as he realized fully what he’d said, and then he began to laugh.

“Impressed is a word I haven’t heard very often,” Sérelókë said, and then he too shook in laughter, the muscles of his strong but very ordinary-seeming arms tightening a bit at Iaun’s sides as he heaved with it, breathing brokenly over Iaun’s neck.

“I don’t know what else I would call it,” Iaun said. “I doubt I could have survived that.”

“You could not,” Sérelókë said with certainty. “I had to alter my elemental composition, which is a tricky affair even under more stable conditions. It’s fortunate that I’ve so far managed to maintain useful connections with various spirits associated with water, because that was what I needed to shield myself and dampen Gothmog’s flame enough to conquer and endure him. He must have always have been of a fiery nature, but his essence has been altered and intensified and twisted by a Vala, the mightiest of them all, and there is power in Gothmog that is not his alone.”

“That was marvelous. I understood about half of it,” Iaun said, bristling all over with questions. He blurted out one that was dangerous, and yet safer than some that tingled on his tongue. “So the mightiest of the Valar is . . . the only one who always dwells here now?”

“I’m afraid that’s correct. That is why your people suffer so.”

“And . . . is that why the others have done nothing about him then? Because they can’t? Because he’s stronger than they are?”

“No,” Sérelókë said. “He could defeat any one of them alone, but he could not stand for long against the wrath of all combined. There are some who have keeping of the weaves of fate in which he himself is bound.”

“Hm,” Iaun said. “And they too are bound by its threads.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Sérelókë, and Iaun could feel him nodding. Indeed, Iaun could feel every movement he made and it was very distracting. If he leaned back but a little, he was sure he could listen for the steady beats of Sérelókë’s heart - whether they kept regular time like his own, or if that too was nothing more than a choice he could make.

Sérelókë smelled a little bit like sweat and blood, and Iaun found that reassuring. The scent of recent coupling was upon him also, little different from that of the men of Iaun’s own race, and that was both reassuring and not so.

And as Iaun sniffed and sensed, he knew that Sérelókë must be doing the same, with his wit and his senses much keener. What could he smell - Iaun’s past, his present? His anger and sorrow, his fear - his desire? What would Iaun choose to keep secret, if he could keep anything?

As the landscape began to gentle and mellow, they rode slowly into a forest that was nothing like Nan Dungortheb. The trees that closed in around them were healthy and hale, and birds sang and small creatures romped and chased naturally, even though there was a faint, dreamy haze.

The wind was strong, and cool, not cold - yet when it blew hard enough that Sérelókë’s cloak wrapped around Iaun’s right side, he held it there around himself, feeling strangely sheltered and warmed.

Certhasath was tired, and now at last was willing to let it show, as he slowed and occasionally stumbled. Up ahead, the forest deepened and the path seemed to waver and fade in the distance. Here where they stood, the ground was level and the spreading trees kept the forest floor relatively bare.

A clear stream ran along the path, shallow and deep by turns, shaded by leaning willows and hazels, singing with a reassuring clarity. Further down where the trees and brush opened a little, the water fell gently over sloping rocks and spread itself out into a quiet pool before continuing on its burbling way. It was a lovely little place that felt safe, and Iaun felt he could certainly do with a wash. He also felt that Sérelókë probably could as well, though he doubted he would be the one to suggest it.

“Certhasath is weary,” Iaun said. “And here at last, I think we are as safe as may be for now, and methinks even you must rest. Let me act as a healer once again, for in times past I took pride in it, and there are many who thank my name still. I must insist on the right to tend to your wounds.”

“Mm,” Sérelókë said in agreement, turning his head around to survey the site to his own satisfaction. And Iaun sat up straight and tensed as Sérelókë’s hands at last left their loose grip on his sides and ran boldly up Iaun’s chest, digging into his leather jerkin and pulling him close. “Yes, we must rest, that’s true.”

Iaun shivered as Sérelókë’s hand curled lightly around his throat and drew his head back. He might have expected a kiss or a strangling, but Sérelókë did neither. He nuzzled his nose in Iaun’s long hair and turned Iaun’s face around just enough to drag his lips down Iaun’s jaw. He lowered his face to kiss Iaun’s neck just above his collar, and nudge the leather aside with his nose, and then he bit down. 

Iaun cried out in surprise and ecstasy. It would have taken him long to work up the courage to ask for this, for what he’d wanted ever since he laid eyes on this being. But he had not had to ask - it was given, and soon would be taken. He no longer needed to fear what Sérelókë knew, not in this regard at least. He leaned back into Sérelókë’s biting kisses to his neck, turning his head aside to show his openness, and bucked a little on the horse’s back when one of Sérelókë’s hands slid down to grasp him lightly between his thighs.

“I think,” Sérelókë murmured, in a deep vibrating voice that was as much sensation as sound, “you are right. We should dismount and camp here.”

His voice purred softly in Iaun's ear and Iaun nearly went limp at the pleasure of it -- all limp but for one part -- trying to keep from whimpering too much as Sérelókë’s tongue skittered along the edge of his ear. "I do not make assumptions, I make observations,” Sérelókë said. "If I have erred in this one, I trust you will let me know. But I perceived in your gaze and your pulse and your breath and the subtle changes in your scent at my close proximity and my touch, that you are drawn to me. That it has been long since you had a companion to fulfill your needs. That you are strong in your lusts once you know you are permitted to ask for what you want. And you should know by now," and here he gave Iaun's shaft a promising squeeze through his breeches, "that I am not one who will balk at . . . unusual requests.”

Iaun did not need to ask him how he knew. “You have not erred,” Iaun said quietly, still tingling from Sérelókë’s touch but holding still where he sat, with no idea of what his next move should be. “Not in this matter.”

Sérelókë moved back suddenly and braced himself on Certhasath's back as he swung down to the ground gracefully, his long legs bending in a supple way that captured Iaun's gaze, rapt as he admired their slender strength. Despite having seen that amazing performance with Gothmog, Iaun could not assume he knew what Sérelókë would look like unclad - this time, in the body he currently wore, which seemed so very compatible with Iaun’s own. Could it be different every time? Iaun’s head swam with confused desire, mild trepidation, uncertainty.

Sérelókë stood there smiling, the same breeze that rustled the leaves stirring his cloak and ruffling his strange, curling hair. He rested a hand on Iaun’s thigh for a moment before stepping back to give the Elf room to dismount without landing right upon him. Iaun’s shoulder twinged as he swung himself down, but his leg did not betray him as he landed almost in Sérelókë’s arms. Hands on his shoulders to steady him, Sérelókë leaned in close for just a moment, inhaling him. Iaun reached for him, and Sérelókë stepped back, just away enough, smiling with a threat and a promise.

“Is it safe to build a fire here?” Sérelókë asked.

“You’re asking me? You didn’t just . . . deduce it from the smell of the air and the sounds of the wild creatures?”

“I am new to this land, and you are the experienced woodsman between us,” Sérelókë said. Iaun knew he was showing respect and appreciation for Iaun’s own knowledge, and he felt a small pulse of gratitude. 

“Safe enough,” Iaun said. “This forest is old and dense and wild, but not poisoned, not malicious. As fair a place to camp as any other. That water should be good to drink as well, and I’m sure I can find us at least a hare to eat.” Then a strange thought occurred to him, a question he never thought he’d need to ask anyone. “That is, I certainly do need food from time to time. Do you?’

Sérelókë paused and thought for a moment. “I have eaten on occasion, yes. I am starting to think I might need to more often here. Changing shape and shedding flesh was more difficult than it was in Valinor. I think I am becoming more . . . solid.” With a smile, he took Iaun’s hand and pressed it to his chest. A steady heartbeat pulsed there. Iaun felt something else flashing through him, a tingling warmth that made him jump, and then move his hand back, seeking for more of it.

“Let me look at you,” Iaun said, and his voice came out rasping. “I saw you wounded.”

“I healed.”

“I don’t trust that,” said Iaun, prepared to be stubborn.

“I will let you see for yourself,” said Sérelókë, and the heat in his eyes made Iaun shiver. “Go and hunt now, and tend to me later. You know my wounds will not kill me soon.” 

I know I couldn’t survive the Balrog, Iaun thought. I am not certain I will survive you. But there is no fear that can stop me now.

Sérelókë smiled and drew away slowly, letting Iaun’s fingers trail down his belly, feeling firm warmth through the fine cloth that covered it.

If you are going to stay in this land long, I will see you in garb that protects you better, Iaun vowed silently, whether you believe you need it or not.

Iaun smiled and shouldered his bow and went hunting, grateful for the temporary relief from the pressure building within him. By the time he came back with two rabbits, Sérelókë had already kindled a bright, popping fire and sat beside it warming his hands. Sérelókë’s eyes tracked every one of Iaun’s small movements as he skinned and cleaned and cooked the little beasts, studying closely every detail of Iaun’s sharp knife at work on small bones and muscles. They ate in near-silence, and Iaun observed that Sérelókë tore into the meat with none of the delicacy he might have expected. “Builds an appetite, I’d imagine,” Iaun said with his mouth full. “What you did to Gothmog.”

Sérelókë wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to Iaun with grease-slicked lips smiling. “It appears I do need sustenance here,” he said. “To keep my strength up for the things I want to do to you.”

There was little meat left on the rabbit bone Iaun dropped, so he grieved it not. Quickly now he reached for his healer’s bag and looked at Sérelókë. “I remind you, I did not fail to notice you were wounded. Are you warm enough to undress for me?”

“Always,” Sérelókë said, his gaze steady and his voice deep and low.

So Sérelókë had not reconsidered his promises then, and he was no longer playing coy. Iaun watched those long white fingers unclasp his cloak-pin and lay that garment out on the ground behind him. Slowly Sérelókë unbuckled his belt and laid it aside - sword still close, Iaun noted with satisfaction. He was learning the ways of this land fast enough. His tunic had clasps at the shoulder to loosen its collar, and with a bit of a grunt he struggled to lift it up and over his head, leaning forward at last bare to the waist in the form he wore most often.

In the starlight, his skin was white and smooth over lean muscles and long bones, dark hair falling over his shoulders like a curtain of sky and vines. The lines made by Gothmog’s whip had the harmless look of scars long-healed, but he shivered as Iaun caressed them with the salve of herbs he swore by, just in case. “Yavanna has set a great virtue in these,” Sérelókë said in a deep, soft voice. “But I also credit the pleasure of your hand.”

Iaun could not help but make a sound that was not a word, as he kept stroking Sérelókë’s skin, feeling it warming to heat beneath his touch, though the ointment was well worked in long ago.

“If you are not cold, Iaun,” Sérelókë said. “It is only fair that you and I are matched in our state of undress. And if I am not mistaken, I believe that when we were first considering this campsite, you looked to that pool in the stream as a desirable site for bathing. That appeals to me, I suggest we make use of that.”

“I am not cold,” Iaun said, and he could not recall what cold might have once felt like, for in Sérelókë’s closeness, he was deeply warmed, and aware of the chafe of his own clothing as he had not been before. His mind wandered unbidden, entertaining the image of Sérelókë’s white hands undoing his clasps and fastenings, peeling travel-worn linen and leather from his skin, letting his fingertips roam.

“This, your hröa, your body . . .,” said Sérelókë, as though he were already touching, drawing him close. “You can’t change it at will, which is why your scars still pain you.”

“Well, yes,” Iaun said. “It’s me. This. It’s all I am.”

“It is not all you are,” Sérelókë said firmly as his right hand wandered upward to stroke Iaun’s neck.

“Well, it’s the only body I have and I’m rather attached to it. I imagine it must be different for you. Yours. Your body, that you’re in. That you can change.”

Sérelókë shrugged, and the irony of using his body to speak in whatever small capacity did not appear lost on him in that moment. “It is not the same as yours. It’s a fána, an illusion. I shape it with my mind. I am _ëalar_ , spirit that needs no body. It is transportation - it takes me from place to place and shape to shape and I find it especially convenient in material matters. I sense with it, I touch, I feel. But I can discard it and walk without, in time of need. You already know this. You’ve seen it.”

“I might not be entirely convinced you are real,” Iaun said, grinning. “It’s said that those who wander alone for too long in the dreaming woods begin to imagine things that are impossible, and to speak with companions who are not there.”

“I am here,” Sérelókë said. “You would do well to avoid such idle fancies.”

“I do love a good tale,” Iaun said. “In my time, I’ve been known to tell them. But I’ve run out of old stories, alone for so long and with so little of import happening around me. I think that in your company, I shall never again have a shortage.”

Sérelókë started to lean towards him and then stepped aside quickly, leaving Iaun to nearly fall forwards. “Come to the water and wash with me,” he said. “I suspect I smell of brimstone.”

Iaun shivered at the sound of his voice, not the cold - for the night was mild in this starlit wood, and he looked forward to cleansing himself of the grime of travel and the air of battle. In his kit, he found the cake of cleansing herbs and beeswax, and tossed it gamely in his hands, giving Sérelókë a wink and a smile that was more confident than he felt. He tossed it to Sérelókë, who sniffed it in curiosity and gave a look of satisfaction.

At the edge of the pool, Iaun sat on a large, flat stone and tugged off his boots. They were soft but sturdy leather, well-made and had served him well for many journeys, but they were showing their age, and might no longer shield him from much damp without repairs. Sérelókë would notice this, of course.

The water felt glorious as it ran over his feet - cool but not cold, soothing and refreshing, and Iaun let out a little sound of delight. Which brought him a snap of the sharp, knowing eyes of Sérelókë, who seemed to drink Iaun in with his studying gaze.

Iaun had never been one to feel shyness about his body, especially in the practical matter of bathing with others, but he hesitated now at the laces of the soft breeches that were the last barrier between himself and those eyes that missed nothing and knew nothing of modesty. For Iaun was aware - as Sérelókë must be also - of the firmness and heat of the member that strained against his laces. Iaun was half tempted to walk into the water half-clothed this way. But that would be an admission of cowardice, would it not?

Count on Sérelókë to show no reluctance - instead it seemed he waited until he had Iaun’s full and unbroken attention before he unlaced and peeled snug cloth from his hips and thighs, displaying long graceful legs and a generous, curvy backside. Iaun’s eyes could not help but linger long on the thatch of dark hair at the base of his belly and the member that sprang from it - not fully erect, but plump and flushed with promise, and undaunted by the coolness of the water. Sérelókë waded in to the tops of his thighs, to all appearances showing off as he ran his hand slowly down his lean belly to draw Iaun’s eyes.

He was beautiful, uncannily so. And his own eyes seemed as locked to Iaun’s every move, in return and in kind, as Iaun waded into the water to his waist, sighing in relief as the cool, cleansing sweetness of clear water cradled and lifted him and began to wash away his grime and strain.

“That,” Iaun said, looking Sérelókë up and down with a new boldness once he realized once and for all what had set him at unease. “This - _fána_ that you wear, that you make with your own mind as a tailor would sew a robe with cloth and thread - this. . . is beautiful. You do me great honour to let me gaze upon it, and even more so to let me touch it. And yet . . . “ He started to laugh now, for it was so obvious. “you have missed something if you wish to blend in perfectly with the Children of Ilúvatar.”

Sérelókë looked indignant as he gazed down upon himself from chest to foot, his lovely member cupped in his large hand in the sweet-scented water as he washed himself lazily. “I assure you, I-”

“Oh not that,” Iaun said quickly. “That - that - is flawless and without equal.” Truthful he was, and his mouth was beginning to water for yearning. “It is this, here,” Iaun ran his hand over his own belly. “A small detail of no use whatsoever. Do you see what I have that you lack?”

“An oddly deep small circular scar on your abdomen,” said Sérelókë. “Intriguing, by no means marring your beauty. Do please tell me how you came by it!”

“I . . . came by it by being born, Sérelókë,” Iaun said. “This is the scar of the place where I was attached to my mother while she fed me in her womb. There is a cord that is severed at birth. The place of connection remains. You have forgotten to include that detail.”

“Oh!” Sérelókë cried, slapping his own forehead, a stream of starlit water trailing. “Stupid! There is always something!”

“I suppose it would never occur to you,” Iaun said carefully. “If you were never born.”

“No, no, it had not,” Sérelókë said, leaning forward to study Iaun’s own navel with uncomfortable intensity. “Fascinating. Bit of a spiral formation there, overlaps of skin - a pathway that once led directly into your stomach, before you were able to eat for yourself. Hm.”

He stood back and pressed a fingertip into his own pale, flat belly, in roughly the same proportionate spot, and Iaun watched in amazement as Sérelókë’s skin rearranged itself into a shape like Iaun’s own. “There. It would not do to have such an obvious flaw.”

“That was unfairly done, for now you have no flaws at all,” Iaun said softly. Turning away in embarrassment, he lowered his body fully into the water, to finish cleaning and to hide his obvious arousal, and perhaps to soothe it a little with the coolness of the water. The pool was deeper than he had first judged it, and he found that if he allowed himself to float, he had nearly enough room to swim - not as freely as he had done in his youth on the broad flat stretches of the great river Anduin, but enough to lift the strain from his creaking scars.

As Iaun drifted, weariness and fear floated away from him to be washed away as the stream gurgled and sang over rocks below. Enchanting was its music, speaking to him of moments of peace and safety, when the heart’s desire was not so far out of reach. For a time he half lay and half swam, and the canopy of trees opened to admit the sight of Varda’s glimmering jewels far above. He thought he could let himself be lulled to dream and yet stay safe, such was the power of the murmuring song.

Yet another voice spoke to him, and gently but firmly did it rouse him. Sérelókë sank in the pool to his lean shoulders, water streaming from his wild hair, and he swam towards Iaun smooth and quick, like a supple river creature. 

Iaun sat up after rinsing his own hair, letting it stream down his back and trail in the water, shivering as its strands seemed to float by their own will into Sérelókë’s hands. With that grip upon him, cradling his head, Iaun leaned forward into it, his feet on a floor of smooth round pebbles and his knees and thighs brushed by slick skin. He closed his eyes and turned his face up eagerly, expecting the touch of Sérelókë’s mouth against his own. What he got instead was hot breath and heated words, speaking directly into the place where a kiss should be.

“Iaun,” Sérelókë said. “Long has it been since you had a lord you would follow. Do I not speak true?”

“You do,” Iaun murmured, opening his eyes to see a deep-set grey gaze binding him with chains of silver. It was too soon to be sure this was the desire of his heart, but the desire of his body sprang and thrummed, overwhelming in his veins. His knees went weak, and signalling his surrender he sank, giving in to the pull of Sérelókë’s strong arms, letting himself be lifted to his waist and drawn close. For a moment he let his muscles go limp, as he took his first taste of the feeling of giving himself over.

“Brave you are,” Sérelókë murmured. “No coward would trust me after what you’ve seen.”

“Perhaps no wise one would either,” Iaun said, and he could nearly feel the water on Sérelókë’s face warm and wet on his own. 

So close had he pressed in that Iaun was startled when Sérelókë rose to his full height, splashing Iaun but a little as his sleek body emerged from the water, and Iaun found himself face to face with his belly, wet and shining and completely inviting; his shaft half-hard and enticing in its nest of dark dripping curls.

Were this certain of his other companions of the road in times past, Iaun would know what to do - hands on slim hips without hesitation, drawing the tip of that taunting member between his lips, teasing it to full hardness with his tongue.

Yet he stayed still, eyes uplifted, up the long planes of Sérelókë’s chest and up to his face, questioning in silent supplication, waiting. His shoulders straightened in remembered dignity, but the rest of him hovered humbled, a warrior awaiting his command.

Large, gentle hands reached down to cup his face, and swept Iaun’s hair back, trailing nails over the points of his ears as Sérelókë took a light grasp of Iaun’s hair, turning Iaun’s face to gaze up at him fully. Sérelókë’s face was stern in the starlight with his thick hair plastered to his head and neck, his eyes hooded, his sharp cheekbones starkly shadowed, but his full lips parted in a promising smile.

“You are wary and slow to trust, as I have observed before,” said Sérelókë, running a hand down Iaun’s throat, digging nails in, giving just the slightest squeeze. “Yet you allow this. Your hand sometimes trembles with the damage of your shoulder wound, yet now it is calm and still as a pool with no wind while you bide your time waiting to touch me. Your thigh muscles trouble you, yet you have crouched long in the water now with no ill effects, and when I bid you rise, I have no doubt you will do so smoothly. I have never known anyone to show as much trust as you are giving me now, and I have given you little reason for it.”

“I do beg to differ,” Iaun said carefully, lowering his eyes. “You showed great worth as a comrade in arms back in the forest.”

“True,” Sérelókë said. “But that alone would not relax you so, when you are so still and at ease with your life in my hand. It is not trust that you feel, not entirely.”

Iaun shook his head. “No. It is . . . less than that, and also more.”

Sérelókë took a moment to think, and then he once again gave Iaun his full attention. “Then I hope to reward your ‘more’ and by so doing, earn the full measure of your ‘less.’”


	7. Come Through Woe to Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iaun likes a _lot_ of woe with his bliss, and even Sérelókë finds him quite a handful. Handfuls, even.

Iaun’s gaze was calm and intense, yet Sérelókë could feel the throb and flutter of his pulse, belying his stillness. It was true, the half-wild wood-Elf still slightly feared him. And such was Iaun’s nature, that fear made his desire all the stronger. 

Sérelókë could not now look away from the depths in those eyes he had not taken the time to explore so closely before. The dominant colour was a dark blue that only existed in a few spaces between the stars, but there were other shades - a deep brown-green, like the moss that grew upon stones in the forests here; a sharp dark grey that appeared on some mineral veins in some mountainsides; a rich golden strand there that evoked for just one tiny moment the last lights of dying Laurelin, and the black depths of the center expanded to fill nearly to the edges of darkling colour.

Iaun had not the light of Valinor, Sérelókë observed. He had the lights and colours and shades of his own homeland, which should hardly be counted inferior in the face of one so fair.

Sérelókë moved fingers of one hand through Iaun’s golden-grey hair and curled them around his head, as if to bring him closer still, fixing in his mind that expressive face, handsome but careworn in a way the Elves of Aman did not show, not even fate-wracked Fëanor. 

And while Sérelókë thought long on these matters, gazing down into Iaun’s eyes, Iaun leaned in closer, though he had not yet been bidden to do so, and his eyes dropped lower to make a study of Sérelókë’s curving rod of desire, which slowly swelled and grew as Iaun breathed upon it and licked his lips. The mere thought of accepting the gift of that eager mouth, feeding Iaun with his staff, taking his pleasure so quickly, made Sérelókë harder still. How long - how long could Iaun crouch there before he would take the bait, and then Sérelókë would have to punish him to maintain his mastery?

It seemed to him that Iaun’s resolve was beginning to break, for his face now had a truly ravenous expression, and his body trembled with the strain of holding still. Perhaps Iaun’s old injuries were beginning to pain him, Sérelókë thought. He would have to work around that, for he did not want his partner distracted by pains of inferior quality.

But let it not be said that Sérelókë of Aman was cruel only to his erotic thralls and never to himself, for he allowed thoughts to torment him of how it would feel to press his cock where Iaun so dearly wanted it, to be stoked and soothed and satisfied by eager lips and tongue caressing and sucking him, reaching his peak to fill Iaun’s hungry throat. For it was apparent to Sérelókë that Iaun had experience in these matters, that his craving was clearly that of seeking to revisit a remembered pleasure.

That could not stand. Sérelókë would tolerate being no mere repeat. He would make certain all of Iaun’s past pleasures paled in comparison to the throes he would soon feel beneath Sérelókë’s hands.

So then Sérelókë pressed Iaun’s face a little closer to him, until the slick, bared head of his member nearly brushed Iaun’s strangely dear little turned-up nose, until he was certain the scent of it must be driving Iaun nearly mad. When Iaun opened his mouth to take what he thought he was being offered, Sérelókë tightened his fingers in Iaun’s hair and pulled, drawing him back again.

“I can feel you burning with lust to taste me, Iaun,” Sérelókë said with a laugh in his voice as he held Iaun’s head away. “Did you think I would give you what you want so easily, so quickly?”

Iaun made a deprived sort of whimpering sound, but his stormy eyes hinted at rebellion. _Good, oh so very good,_ Sérelókë thought.

“Stand up, Iaun,” Sérelókë said, pulling on his hair with a steady pressure upward. “Rise and show me what is mine.”

Iaun breathed in sharply and stood as smoothly as he could, water trailing from his flanks and hips. The proud stand of his member had suffered no diminishment from the cool water - hopefully and shamelessly its tip bumped against Sérelókë’s thigh, and Sérelókë decided then that he ought to punish it. Sérelókë also noted with satisfaction that Iaun’s leg trembled not at all; if it caused him any pain, there was no sign to observe.

Straight and proud did Iaun stand as he obeyed Sérelókë’s command, and seemed reluctant to lower his eyes as Sérelókë studied him for signs of hesitance. Slightly Iaun trembled as Sérelókë’s gaze fell to his scarred shoulder, studying the raised scoring and picks and pocks of rearranged and disfigured skin and muscle. _He may believe me to be repulsed by this,_ Sérelókë thought. _Be cruel to him in other ways, but always kind to him for the sake of this, for this is fascinating, and for me, that is what is truly beautiful._ Sérelókë had seen little of scars, for the wounded ones had not yet begun to cross the sea. But having recently seen so many types of weapons upon the battlefield, now Sérelókë was almost certain he could tell the specific shape of the Orcish pike that had pierced him. “This wound nearly killed you,” was all he said, careful to let no pity show through.

“Yes,” Iaun said flatly, clearly holding his chin steady with effort.

“Yes, what?’ asked Sérelókë, in a voice that was deceptively gentle.

“Yes, ah . . . my lord,” said Iaun, and the minute movement of his cock was enough for Sérelókë to know that, as much effort as it caused him to speak so, it also paid Iaun back fairly in pleasure.

“Mm, yes,” Sérelókë said. “Not always,” he then said, for he felt that he ought. “But for now, while I make use of you and you let me, then I do love to hear those words from your mouth.”

“Make use of my mouth as you wish, my lord,” Iaun said hopefully. “Of all of me, as you please, and you need not take too much care to be gentle.”

“Oh, splendid,” Sérelókë said on a low breath. “So far you are simply perfect. All I could desire. Turn around.”

Iaun nodded, swallowed once, and did so. Sérelókë gathered up his long fair hair in one fist, lifting it, dragging first his nose and then his teeth across the nape of Iaun’s neck, breathing his scent in deeply and taking sharp, luxurious tastes with his tongue. Wonderful, that scent. Moss and loam, skin and musk. Intoxicating. 

Sérelókë ran his sensing fingertips over the corresponding rises and lines of scarring on the back of Iaun’s shoulder - marvelling at Iaun’s tenacity to survive, allowing himself a moment to grieve the possibility that this meeting, with only a small change of fortune, might never have occurred, that he would never have known Iaun’s watching eyes and guarded obedience, his curiosity and his courageous lust. 

He took hold of Iaun’s shoulder and dug his fingers in hard, pressing where he might be vulnerable, listening for the gasp of pain, carefully attuned to every stutter and surge of breath and pulse, every twitch and flex of muscle and skin. Iaun gave a low sound that he was clearly trying to suppress, and Sérelókë released him immediately, soothing the ache with a purposeful kiss that seemed to set Iaun at ease, for the tense muscles softened and his spine flexed invitingly. Iaun gave a soft shivering sigh as Sérelókë let his hand slide lower, his fingernails following the natural path of the curved groove of Iaun’s spine.

Graceful muscle met him here, as Iaun’s back flexed toward Sérelókë’s touch, every slight movement redolent of pleasure and craving. Iaun’s skin shivered in little bumps all over, and he jumped just a little as Sérelókë took hold of a delightful round handful of flesh, Iaun’s beautiful firm buttocks so enticing above the split of his thighs. Sérelókë squeezed hard - not at the full force of his power nor anywhere near it, but enough to produce a groan and a shudder. With a smile he released Iaun’s arse, but not before bending his fingers underneath, with a quick glancing touch of crease and opening, the promising gateway hinted at beneath his curves. _Iaun might think he wants it as rough as Gothmog, Sérelókë thought. But that is not how I will take him. I will drive him mad with slow care and firm guidance at first, until he sobs and begs me, until he finally pronounces my name correctly._

Sensitive to Iaun’s shivers, Sérelókë wrapped an arm around him from behind and drew him close against his body, making sure to rock his hardened shaft slowly in the curve of Iaun’s back that sheltered it so perfectly, running his hand over the quivering muscle of Iaun’s chest and slowly, cruelly, tugging at the nipple when he reached it. Once, he had wondered why the male form even had these. Now, of course, he knew. Even if that purpose was not what the original design intended. Iaun groaned quietly, clearly struggling to maintain his firm warrior’s posture, every nerve within him aching to relax and lean back into Sérelókë’s embrace.

Not yet. He would have to earn that honour.

“You are pleasing to my sight when you are cold and wet,” Sérelókë said into Iaun’s ear, his voice low and calm. “It could make you pliant, very obedient to my whims for promise of warmth. And I promise you that, Iaun. Very warm you shall be, in my care. But I deem we have shivered here long enough. Go. Fetch my cloak and my sword-belt.”

He leaned back then, running his hands down Iaun’s arms as he backed aside, and gave Iaun a sharp slap to the rear to send him on his errand, knowing that the combination of items would leave him wondering and perhaps slightly frightened. Which was just how Sérelókë wanted him. Iaun gave a small look of defiance, as if fetching small personal effects on order was beneath his dignity. It was, which was precisely why Sérelókë had commanded it. Delightful.

Oh, many were the ways Sérelókë wanted him, as he watched Iaun climb from the water - not a trace of a hitch in his limbs as he scrambled up the rocks gracefully: a woodland creature he was, son of river and forest, a feature of the landscape. Sérelókë wondered if this was how Iaun’s people had looked at Cuiviénen, awakening for the first time beneath the stars and opening their eyes to the loveliness of their homeland and each other, naked and equal before the Sea had sundered them.

Sérelókë struggled to stay still as Iaun returned, with Sérelókë’s sword-belt in his hand and cloak of dark-grey and violet draped over one damp shoulder and trapping his hair, half-covering his nakedness with a teasing sway in the forest breeze - his head bowed in submission but his eyes gleaming with insubordinate promise. Sérelókë had certainly conquered partners much more formidable, but never before had he such a treasure to call his own.

And how best to treat such a treasure? Cruelly of course, for that was what Iaun desired. 

Sérelókë stood with his arms folded, in water up to his thighs, as Iaun approached, and then he stepped forward, sloshing, reaching dry ground easily with his long legs. Iaun’s eyes were lowered in his willing abasement, yet nonetheless flickered over Sérelókë’s body, for Iaun had little control of his wandering eyes, and the errand had done nothing to diminish his desire.

Swiftly did Sérelókë reach out and snatch the belt from his hand. More slowly did he pull the heavy drape of Valinorean cloth from Iaun’s shoulder, and bent into the motion a small effect of his Will, to warm and dry Iaun’s skin as it passed over him.

“DId you enjoy wearing that for such a brief time, Iaun?” Sérelókë said, giving his voice a mocking tone. “Is it your wish that I should dress you in finery and keep you as my catamite? Do you imagine we have such luxuries in Valinor?” He expected that Iaun might laugh at that for all he would try to hide it, and he was rewarded in his foresight.

 

Then Sérelókë could startle him, whipping his cloak around to viciously snap Iaun in the chest, knocking him backwards several steps with a cry of shock and pain. Iaun reeled back unharmed, but with a clutch at his breast and a look on his face of shock and betrayal turned sharply to lust.

Surly. Resenting. Tongue all-a dance upon his lips that burned to speak reproachful words but held shut in silence as if by a force outside himself that acted upon him. Sérelókë was doing no such thing - it was all in Iaun’s battle with himself where his pride strove with his desire.

With a windy swing Sérelókë brought his cloak round to drape about his own shoulders, its weight falling into place where it belonged, its thick sensuality caressing his drying skin. As if in reflex he stood straighter, allowing himself to grow in size but a little until he towered even more than usual over his willing thrall, until the stormy and demanding blue eyes had to turn far upwards before remembering their place and turning down. And Sérelókë did not lose the thread of his design, for Iaun’s eyes tracked the swirl of his cloak and the way it limned Sérelókë’s form so closely that not until it was too late did he mark the swift unsheathing of Sérelókë’s sword with the hand he did not watch.

Not until the Noldorin blade was at his neck did Iaun dare to breathe, and such breath came hard and fast as the sharp point followed the notch of his throat and the groove of his breast before hovering bright and cruel below his heart. Long did they gaze upon each other then, in tense contemplation, and it may be that each of them felt a shiver of yearning for a red bud of blood to sprout upon skin and steel - only a gasp or a small swaying away. And at times each of them did sway; though whether towards or away they could not be certain. 

Then did Sérelókë become certain of the will of Iaun, and of the manner in which he wished to be won. “Kneel,” he said, with finer-tempered steel in his voice than in the sword that a son of Fëanor had made.

Iaun obeyed, and beneath his cloak did Sérelókë conceal a hand prepared to steady him should he wobble or waver in his descent - but he did not, and Sérelókë felt a warm wave of new sensation in his chest at the beauty of Iaun on his knees before him. Sharper did his senses become in that moment - the soft murmur of the water, the peal of a distant nightingale, the rustle of the beech leaves in the gentlest of breezes, all became as flourishes of the musician’s art to frame the perfection of his moment. Lightly did Sérelókë touch Iaun’s shoulder with his sword, caressing and tapping with the flat of the blade, becoming fully conscious of the ritual they were enacting as Iaun offered his life, knowing it would not be taken.

Iaun bowed forward, but Sérelókë nudged him to straighten his lovely spine, for he would not have Iaun’s shoulders blocking his sight of the glorious, unwavering arousal between his taut thighs. As long as that sturdy vane pointed true, Sérelókë would know he need not temper his attentions.

For his part, Sérelókë thought he would be content to revel in the beauty of Iaun’s submission for long ages of the world to come, before at last taking his pleasure - but Iaun was of a more earthly constitution, and his silent pledge of fealty deserved a more intense, more immediate reward.

Just for one moment, then, he balanced the tip of his blade beneath Iaun’s chin, and turned the Elf’s face upward to his, careful to show him a stern mask. “I could keep you on your knees until your body began to fail you,” Sérelókë said. “It is a magnificent sight. I could gaze upon it forever. But that would be a poor reward for the gift you have given me, and I know I have only begun to explore what there is in you for me to take. I see little fear in you, Iaun, though you have seen things that would freeze the heart of many much more powerful. Once you had it, but I perceive it has been stripped from you.”

Iaun’s lovely head turned a little, cocked the better to hear, though there was a question in his face.

“Shall I tell you what I see in you? I see one who has survived, and does not comprehend the reason why. One who believes he would trade places with the fallen, the houseless ones, the spirits who wait in the halls of Mandos. You believe this is bravery, and perhaps it is.” Sérelókë let his voice run dark, twisted it. It occurred to him for a moment then that he might not have learned this art, had he never had the ill fortune to hear Melkor speak. It was not such a great matter, to weave one’s speech with layers of deception and threat and subtle insult, through such means to achieve certain ends. This was too close to the shadow for his own liking - and perhaps just close enough for Iaun’s. So Sérelókë peeled back that veil with great relish. “For it is not the dead you wish to atone for. It is those who would be better off dead - those who were taken, those who are slaves in Melkor’s pits, who writhe in his torments. Or those of his most terrible servants, I should say, for I doubt that Morgoth Bauglir himself, as he is called now, would deign to personally flay any but the worthiest victims. The ones he loves enough to destroy with his own hands. The most cherished. The most precious. Is that what you become, in your nightmares? Is that what keeps your member hard as bone even in your long grief?” 

Iaun looked up at him with darkened, angry eyes, his fine lips pressed together tight, and Sérelókë desired much to hear his thoughts. “Speak,” Sérelókë commanded him.

Sérelókë paced about him now in tight, close circles, forcing Iaun to keep his balance as he struggled to keep his eyes where they ought to be. His naked feet traced out a path of rustling leaves and curving tree roots, traces of Yavanna’s hand. Still clad in nothing but his cloak, he was keenly aware of how it concealed and revealed him by turns with his movements.

“I have not dwelt long on the sufferings of Melkor’s thralls, my lord,” Iaun said, his voice shaking but a little. “Yet I have heard some talk of the . . . uses he has for certain of his servants; using the greater to torment the lesser. The . . . the Balrogs among them.”

“Yes,” Sérelókë said, tapping the flat of his sword against the triangular wing-bone of Iaun’s shoulder. “The pain of even the least of those for one of your kind would be immense. And there is more, go on.”

He heard the shudder of Iaun’s breath. “And there is his lieutenant now, the one we call Gorthaur the cruel . . . “

Sérelókë stood still as his mind raced through the fleeting faces and names of his legion, and kept returning to stop upon one in particular - pieces of tales weaved into one seamless stream with a shining and sharp blade of truth. “O! O yes, yes, it must be, he who was once but no longer known as Mairon, a vassal of Aulë, great and proud in his . . . arts. A kinsman of mine he was and yet remains, alas. Is that the appeal, Iaun? Is that whose likeness you seek?”

“I seek no likeness but yours, my lord,” Iaun said quickly. Too quickly.

With a flash, Sérelókë sheathed his sword again, and pulled the scabbard free of the belt, which he curled and curved in his hand. He brought it down across Iaun’s upper back with a strike that had more in it of sound than force. Iaun’s cry was clearly more surprise than pain. “Do not lie to me,” Sérelókë said, flat and forceful.

“I beg you to not let your attention wander from me when I am the one who kneels at your feet,” said Iaun quietly. “I care not for the intrigues of the Ainur who are far from here. Only for the one who is with me, the one I wish to serve. I wish to see no likeness in my thought but yours.”

Sérelókë thought to admonish Iaun for his bold speech - yet Iaun was right - he _had_ been distracted by the sound of his own voice and the rushing river of his own thoughts, and far better he give his full awareness to every hair and pore and flicker of Iaun. 

“O my Iaun, you are marvellous,” he said. “You keep me true to what’s important.” He drew his sword one more time, and this time slowly slid the flat of the blade across Iaun’s face, holding it still a breath’s distance away. “Say yea nor nay without words.” With a little sound in his throat, Iaun touched his lips to the shiny blade in a kiss.

Sérelókë saw Iaun’s face reflected so close in the blade, his nose and mouth, the steam of his breath. Quickly but carefully he drew it away, and stepped closer, saying. “And briefly kiss this blade as well.”

Gratefully Iaun kneeled up again and nuzzled Sérelókë’s member, touching his lips to the head, clearly struggling with the effort to keep the kiss formal, for all his desire seemed bent to opening his mouth wide and drawing Sérelókë in.

Sérelókë let him struggle with his yearning for long moments, admiring the sight, before stepping away and giving Iaun’s cheek a small, fond slap, watching the shiver of Iaun’s eyelids.  
“Go now to yon beech tree by the stream - see, the one with the limbs that bend down just so? Go there and wait for me. I will see what treasures a woodsman of Middle-earth carries that are of use in my . . . trade.”

With a shiver Iaun rose, steady and straight - though Sérelókë would not have minded a hand upon his shoulder should Iaun have needed bracing - and his only tremble was of anticipation, not fear or pain. 

And it was no small effort for Sérelókë to take his own eyes from Iaun’s form - oh, an Ainu he could be, a rider in the hunt of Oromë or a sailor on a swan ship riding Ulmo’s waves or a craftsman in Aulë’s forge infusing stones with light - yet also he belonged just as he was, a beautiful and dangerous woodland creature who might as well pledge his fealty to Yavanna, Sérelókë found him mesmerising. Yet he controlled himself, and watched long enough to see that Iaun had positioned himself against the tree, patient and yielding.

Then Sérelókë went to the place where their meager possessions had been left. He pulled his own boots back on, though he left all his other clothes there. He locked eyes with Iaun once again to warn him that he was about to rifle through Iaun’s travel-worn possessions, the pack that was large for a small Elf with no steed to carry for many leagues of rootless wandering, but too small to hold everything he should own in this world. 

Iaun looked back at him with eyes that were shadowed yet trusting, a little bit impatient, just a touch challenging.

Sérelókë found much to please him - a small knife, rope, blankets of a light and scratchy but warm fabric. Other things there were as well - small items of jewelry, a roughly painted portrait, a few links of fine chain, a stained arrowhead. These he treated with care and carefully sifted back into their places even as images rushed through his mind. They were not part of this game, not now.

He stood up to his full height and in truth a bit beyond it, in boots and cloak and nothing else, his sword and sword-belt in his hand, also bearing blanket and rope and knife. 

As he advanced, the rope in his hands began to move and express his will, testing out shapes and patterns, loops and knots, nearly coming to life with its own force. How would you bind him, rope? asked Sérelókë in his mind, letting the answer manifest in his hands. 

With tight loops at wrists that can slide and slip,  
You may choose cruel bite or gentle grip  
Facing forward, hold him, bind,  
Or presenting from behind,  
I know the loops and ways to turn for  
Any posture you might yearn for.

Ah, splendid, Sérelókë thought. The Elves had something of true Art in their making of rope, and that gave him a flash of new insight into Iaun’s people. They had the Secret Fire in full measure, and not all the achievements of the Noldor were credited to the glory of Valinor - which Sérelókë had known, but it was good to be reminded, as he thought now that he would be again and again. This land is death to Valinorean vanity, he thought. Good riddance.

The rope seemed to move in his hands like a tame serpent, eager to please Sérelókë, but more eager to touch its master again. Careful, Sérelókë told himself, do not ascribe to it too much of free will.

Carefully and deliberately did he walk towards Iaun with the rope coiling and uncoiling in his hand, with belt and boots and feral smile. The images danced in his mind, as clear to him as a horizon he scanned with his own eyes, and now it was merely a matter of making sure Iaun was there with him.

He stepped up close and nudged Iaun back down to his knees again, pinning the Elf in with his legs, but using the cloak to keep distance. Iaun was already clearly prepared to meet him there, eyes hooded and downcast as he ran hands over the leather of Sérelókë’s boots - slowly and with reverence, starting from the place where his soles met the ground and taking his sweet time to let his hands reach nearly to his knees. Breathing deep to keep himself calm, Sérelókë watched Iaun’s eyes skitter longingly to his thighs and back down again.

“Kiss my boots and then stand for me,” Sérelókë said, his voice firm and yet infused with a lurking tenderness. He was glad to be obeyed, for he could allow traces of that strange and unfamiliar fondness to come through. Iaun bent low to Sérelókë’s feet, showing a glimpse of his strong back straining, his firm arse spreading. Several kisses did he bestow, in precision and symmetry, a small wet trail from his tongue, making Sérelókë shudder in anticipation.

As Iaun rose to his feet and stepped back against the tree, Sérelókë moved forward and pinned Iaun in place with his arms, keeping his body from touching as much as he could. Beneath his hands, the beech tree’s silver-grey bark was smooth enough for his purpose, but with a subtle roughness that would come into play later.

He drew forth from his mind the flavour of fantasy he’d been slowly weaving there as he uncoiled the rope to bind Iaun’s wrists, watching as the its native cleverness melded with his own into an intricate series of loops that would hold the Elf fast and yet still allow him to turn - or be turned.

“This is what I thought when I saw you bound in the spiders’ web, Iaun,” he said quietly, his voice a tender threat. “Your helplessness so beautiful, so wasted on Ungoliant’s lesser daughters. Their thirst is boundless and their senses limited. Melkor can mock Yavanna’s works but he has not her skill, her generosity of gifts. And his hunts are crude and cruel compared to the delights of Oromë - the thrill of his chase, the ecstasy and sweet relief of the catch.” 

Bound now to the tree, arms stretched out behind him, Iaun shuddered at Sérelókë’s words, already half-close to swooning, it seemed, his legs holding firm but twitching as the muscles of flanks and thighs shook slightly with the yearning for some relief of the pressure in his fleshy staff and hanging stones, standing stiff and red in the nest of dark golden hair.

“My prey,” Sérelókë murmured into Iaun’s ear. “My prisoner. Is this how you imagined being captured and taken, if it had gone differently? You enjoy this, you long for it, and long has your desire shamed you. Give yourself to me now.”

“Yes,” Iaun said, a shaking whisper like a soft wind in the leaves over their heads. The tree to which Iaun was tied seemed now to quiver with its own life and give off a gentle warmth as Sérelókë backed up him against it, bark on eager skin, core of wood unyielding. Iaun stood up on his toes with his panting lips parted, reaching out for a kiss, apparently expecting Sérelókë to claim his mouth. So Sérelókë did not do what was expected - well he remembered the response he’d received when he’d first taken his liberties on Certhasath’s back, and now he ran his tongue and parted lips down the side of Iaun’s neck, latching onto skin and sinew with his teeth and pulling, marking him, savoring the cry Iaun made, of an anguish that was both pain and pleading.

As he bit and sucked, Sérelókë ran one hand up the tree’s trunk above Iaun, using his height advantage and exaggerating it, growing and spreading with his spirit, displaying his power until he touched slim silver branches and graciously accepted the gift of the switch that the tree had given him. With a warning hiss of leaves he drew it back and lightly lashed Iaun across the thigh, and smiled to himself when Iaun barely flinched.

“You want to show me how much you can take, do you not,” Sérelókë whispered. “And you will bear even more pain than you should, for you want to impress me with your endurance.” He snapped his wrist again and glanced down at the faint scratches in Iaun’s soft skin. “Number the strikes, if you please. Tell me.”

Iaun closed his eyes and bit his lip, and Sérelókë could feel the gentle moistening of sweat as he closed his hand around Iaun’s neck, nails digging into his bite mark. “Seven.” he said at last. “If you please. Seven for each - and, and more if I deserve it. My lord.”

“Mmm,” Sérelókë said, well pleased. “You may keep your eyes closed if it please you, but make certain you do not forget who is possessing you.”

Seven for each thigh and hip - fourteen, the number of the Valar, and Sérelókë thought that might not be a coincidence. So in his mind he named each stroke of the beech-wand - fleet as Nessa, doleful as Nienna. Sharp like Manwë’s winds, hot like Aulë’s forge, bright like Varda’s lights. Iaun shivered and shuddered and endured with great forbearance, though tears shimmered in his eyelashes in the light of the stars. Yet might and pride was in Iaun’s cock as it grew and reddened with each blow that landed near it, not quite touching. And so the fourteenth stroke Sérelókë named for Melkor - the lightest blow of all of them but the cruellest, for its point lashed Iaun there, where he was most tender and wanting.

Iaun’s cry of shock and pain was a startling animal sound, and quickly did Sérelókë cover Iaun’s mouth with his hand, taking hold of his face and lifting it to his, reading the expression of his glistening eyes. Iaun’s breaths were hard and fast, steaming around Sérelókë’s hand as he gasped. Sérelókë leaned in to nuzzle him, whispering soothing tones in the tongue of Valinor, of which Iaun knew nothing.

Sérelókë slid his hand slowly down Iaun’s chest and belly, at last touching Iaun’s cock for the first time since they had begun their game, drawing down the length of it with one fingertip in the lightest of caresses, making certain the hurt he’d caused was not too great. It seemed to rise to meet his touch, desperate, straining for friction and pressure. Lightly did Sérelókë pinch the velvet skin bunched under the tip, carefully did he gather the clear bead of nectar leaking, and let Iaun watch rapt as he drew his finger back up to his mouth and sucked it slowly.

“Shall I tell you how delicious you taste, Iaun?” Sérelókë murmured. “The slick texture, the salty tang of flesh and the sea? Your pain, your desire? I would have you see what I see. Look down at yourself.”

Iaun peered down his own body, groaning softly as Sérelókë brushed his own thigh against some of the places he’d lashed, light torment of skin and fine hairs. “What do you wish me to see, my lord?” Iaun’s voice was floating and distant, not entirely his own, as one entranced. 

“You cannot yet see what I see, Iaun?’ Sérelókë asked. “How beautiful you are? How those strokes of mine barely left marks at all, little red lines that sting for a moment and then fade? How you bear the lash so well? Too well, I deem. I command that you tell me the truth when you are close to breaking. I command you to endure _less_ than you think you are able, for the fortitude of your spirit is great, and yet your form is more fragile.”

“Yes,” Iaun finally said. “As you wish, I shall . . . if I am capable.”

“You shall be,” Sérelókë said. “I want you to keep your voice. I want you to speak to me truly, and I want you to say yes and no and speak truth in every word. I command that,” and as he spoke, he let power infuse him, tingling through the thin veneer of his fleshly raiment to touch the edges of Iaun’s spirit, reminding him that his power was not simply in matter. 

Iaun moaned softly, and so Sérelókë knew that he felt that touch, deep inside, in ways he had not words for. “Please, my lord,” Iaun managed to say, his voice gone raw and hoarse. “I would have just a few more strokes of your cruelty. Enough to lift my spirit up again. For I take joy in this, not least because I know you will not despise me for it.”

“Oh, far from that, I promise you,” Sérelókë said. “You have strong appetites, as I saw in you from the first.”

“If I may speak freely, my lord,” Iaun replied. “I have only begun to sample the smallest taste of what I deem you have to give me.”

“Then let us delve further together, my thrall,” said Sérelókë. “In time, we shall taste each other’s gifts to the fullest. In time. I shall not give you all at once. Turn around.”

Iaun scrambled to obey, his wrist bindings twisting easily as he turned his back upon Sérelókë without the slightest hesitation.

“I am in ecstasy at the sight of you,” Sérelókë said. “You must believe that is the truth.” He ran a hand down Iaun’s back, tracing with his palm every swell and curve of muscle, leaving fine lines with his nails, and felt the shuddering flex, the outward curve of Iaun’s arse toward him. “You still want more. You fear I may be afraid to harm you and unwilling to give you what you need. So I will need you to speak to me. Tell me, and be detailed.”

Iaun swallowed deeply, pressing his face to the bark of the tree. “Your belt, my lord. Six strokes high, and ten low.”

“Less of the sting and more of the slap,” Sérelókë said. “Yes, I will do that for you. And then?”

“Enflame me, my lord. Make me burn. And then . . . take your pleasure of me, as you will.”

Sérelókë grasped Iaun’s hair and pulled Iaun’s head back, enough to gaze into his eyes. “Your words are fair to my ears, but imprecise and that is dangerous. What if my pleasure was to slay you slowly?”

“It is not,” Iaun said. “I am sure of that. But I am yours, to do with as you wish.”

Sérelókë sighed in slight exasperation and gave the sinews of Iaun’s unscarred shoulder a bite.

And then he uncoiled his belt, and began.

Iaun shook with each blow and leaned on the tree for its steadiness. Sérelókë struck lightly - the sound of Iaun’s cries and the twitch of his skin was enough. He watched closely for signs of a stiffening spine, but it seemed to him that Iaun began to relax into the strikes, and once the few on his upper back were done, he received the blows to his lovely mounds and hams with a riveting eagerness, writhing his arse forward to meet them. 

At the last, it was Sérelókë who stood panting, head a-swim with the sights and sounds and scents of Iaun’s agonised ecstasy, and that beautiful rear he’d been hungry for since they met, presented to him and striped pink with the leather band’s marks, sheened lightly in sweat.

 _Take your pleasure of me, as you wish,_ he’d said.

With a deep sound in his throat, mouth watering, Sérelókë sank to his knees behind Iaun and took hold of his trembling, scored flesh. With lips and teeth and tongue he devoted himself to the marks he had made, further inflaming them and making Iaun suppress his cries in the bark of the tree, imprinting its patterns on his face. Sérelókë grasped and bit firm flesh ravenously, relishing Iaun’s wanton movements and no longer trying to restrain him.

He could glimpse the streak of wetness Iaun’s shaft had left on the bark of the tree - that unwelcoming surface to writhe against. No, Iaun would have to endure yet more before reaching his peak, of that Sérelókë would make certain. He reached between Iaun’s legs and squeezed him at the base, a command and a warning, infused with his will.

A whimper let Sérelókë know his meaning had been taken. Then with relish and abandon he brought both hands to Iaun’s backside, opening him with lewd delight. In the groove between his great handfuls that burned with the heat of the blows lay a soft valley, tender and hidden, and Sérelókë took his tongue to it with savouring swipes both bold and thorough.

Iaun nearly sobbed above him. The tree absorbed his pleading. Sérelókë continued his onslaught, throbbing his tongue against Iaun’s furled entrance until it began to open, each soft, wet thrust venturing a little deeper within the slick rim.

Sérelókë could not speak with his mouth, but he could reach out with his mind, and Iaun was also eager to receive him in that way. _Let me in. Let me taste you in every way. Let me, let me, let me._

 _Yes, yes, yes,_ sang Iaun’s _hröa_ and _fëa_ together. _I am yours. Have me._

Sérelókë lost himself for long moments in his wanton devouring, his devoted lapping and sucking, until each pulsing thrust took him deeper into Iaun’s center. With his fingers, Sérelókë kept sneaking down to make sure that Iaun felt hot and wet far down the smooth and quivering insides of his thighs. Sérelókë’s breaths started to come in damp gasps and grunts as he buried his face in the tangy seam of Iaun’s body. 

Far below, his own staff pulsed with increasing demand for attention. Not for much longer would it be willing to bide its time, not with Iaun so wanton and eager. Already now that Sérelókë had access with his mouth to Iaun’s tight, warm passage, he could think of nothing but parting that yielding flesh with his own, joining Iaun’s body to his and feeling at last their union fulfilled. . . 

All his reasons for delaying grew weaker and fainter. Iaun’s motions and sounds had gone so far beyond mere invitation that Sérelókë began to feel that he was holding off now to suit only his own pride.

Sérelókë drew back and wiped his wet mouth on one plump, downy-haired cheek, giving the skin and meat of it one sharp nip, and rose to his feet, bracing his hands on Iaun’s hips. He licked Iaun’s neck with the musk of his mouth and whispered to him, “I want to fuck you.” He used the word for it in the harsh and complex Valarin tongue, and felt Iaun shudder in pleasure as he understood nonetheless. Sérelókë introduced a wet finger where his tongue had just been.

“My lord,” Iaun said with great effort. “If I did not make it clear I wanted you to fuck me from our first meeting onward, the fault is mine. If you could not deduce it from the moment when you first found me in a state of shame after watching you swive Gothmog, then the fault is yours.”

Sérelókë stood speechless for one beat of time, and then he caught Iaun’s eye, and laughter came unbidden, wild and tender, a respite of delight that surged through both of them. Lurking there in Iaun’s healer’s kit was a simple slick salve, and with a gentle laugh Sérelókë took it up and greased his aching cock. “You are still able to speak too well. Clearly I have not broken you enough.”

Iaun was bound to the tree - willing and laughing -- and it was with great measure of relief and joy that Sérelókë held Iaun’s hips, bent him just right, and nudged the head of his staff into that half-ready hole.

Iaun shuddered, and gave a strained gasp. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I want. But go easy at first please - you are well-endowed and I have been alone for too long.”

“I go slow because it pleases me,” said Sérelókë in a low growl. “Every inch of you, opening for me in your most secret place, all of you, mine. To feel you struggle and succumb, to hear your voice calling out in your frenzy, to smell you - raw and musky like an animal desperate to mate. Iaun!”

He thrust in deep as Iaun clenched around him, stiff and pained at first, and then opening, spreading, receiving, his spine rippling wantonly in hungry counter-thrusts, tight rim grasping greedily at Sérelókë’s sliding length.

Sérelókë closed his eyes and lost himself in scent and skin and Iaun’s sinuous squeeze. His hands found cruel places to grip and pinch and pull at Iaun’s body - nipples and thighs and balls, all slickening now with sweat.

“Say my name,” he murmured at the last, having found a rhythm that was rough but sustainable. His hand grasped the base of Iaun’s cock, burning hot and slick. “Pronounce it right and I will let you have release. I will make you come so hard they will feel it in Valinor.”

“Sérelókë,” Iaun cried, his voice rough and half-sobbing. His Sindarin accent flattened vowels meant to roll and landed too hard on consonants meant to step lightly.

Sérelókë repeated his own name, emphasizing the slight susurration and suggestion of a _sh_ in the first syllable, shaping the _o_ as a spherical-shaped sound with his lips against Iaun’s back, leaving the final vowel light as a barely-voiced thought - but an important one, not to be forsaken entirely. Iaun’s pronunciation had never been _wrong_ precisely, but there were nuances of Quenya that clearly overworked his tongue - and Sérelókë planned to train that tongue well.

Iaun got a little bit closer when Sérelókë’s hand squeezed his shaft harshly, for the pressure pulled the right sound out of his chest and into his throat as he squirmed desperately, nearly nailed to the tree by Sérelókë’s impatient cock driving into him. “Sérelókë,” Iaun gasped, his hitching breath breaking the rhythm oddly and misplacing the accent. Sérelókë pulled back, nearly all the way out, though it pained him much to do so.

“Terrible,” he muttered into Iaun’s ear as he pushed back in, deep, to the hilt, rolling his hips in slow, deep circles. He clutched at Iaun’s soft sac and sank his nails into delicate skin, causing shivering breaths, shuddering pain. “Lean into my hips, Iaun. Find the rhythm of my name. Please. Please get it right so we can both let go.”

Iaun moaned helplessly and slumped in relaxation, letting himself go free and loose, pinned between the tree and Sérelókë’s body holding him up, impaling him with pleasure. He chanted the name slowly and quickly, in a whisper and a raw pleading cry.

“Close, so close,” Sérelókë groaned. He latched fingers harshly into one of Iaun’s arse cheeks and pulled him open, watching his own cock stretch and spread him as it moved in and out. Beautiful and lascivious, a mesmerising sight. “Slur it less. Clip the “s” and “l” like this.” He demonstrated as best he could with a jerk of his staff and a sting of Iaun’s flesh.

“Please, please,” Iaun said with voice hoarse and strangled. “Please. I need it. I need you. Sérelókë.”

It was perfect.

It had never been so perfectly pronounced since Eru Ilúvatar dreamed him along with all the Ainur into being, naming them all. It might never be again. Sérelókë gave an ecstatic, deep sob of joy and relief, and swiftly now his hand whipped the head of Iaun’s cock, slick and juicy and ripe, primed to jerk and swell and spill.

Iaun was bucking and rolling against him, wracked by great sobs of pleasure; Sérelókë’s hand coated in wet heat where it gripped him, the tree bark streaked with this spending - oh Sérelókë drank in the sensations, committing them all to the treasure hoard of his mind, to be kept in delight until the remaking of the world. 

Iaun was whimpering now, his body shaking, his valiant muscles at last threatening to surrender and collapse.

Sérelókë wrapped his arms around Iaun, supporting him and cushioning him from the tree’s bark. He must be so keenly oversensitive now, every sense flaring, half in pain from the force of his long-delayed release - and out of kindness Sérelókë fucked him deep and fast and at last gave himself permission to let go, to plunge deep into Iaun, body and spirit. With a loud cry, he let his own crisis rise and burst; and in his violent fit of delight he filled Iaun with more than material essence, he was sure, as walls between flesh and spirit came shaking down.

Trembling, Sérelókë only just managed to untie the soft rope of Iaun’s bonds before he sank to his knees with Iaun in his arms, still joined to him, relieved that he had managed to avoid inflicting any great pain by accident in his convulsions.

“Oh . . . Sérelókë,” Iaun said, shivering a little. Sérelókë wrapped him up in his cloak and marvelled to hear that Iaun’s pronunciation was almost as good, still. “That was . . . wondrous. I am utterly sated, and floating in delight. Thank you.”

“My Iaun,” he said, laughing. “My pleasure. And yours. Your pleasure is mine as well. Or . . . yes, I think that’s what I mean. My meaning was . . . ”

Iaun’s hand reached back to skim his palm against Sérelókë’s cheek. His hand was warm, and it trembled only a little, with exertion. Sérelókë inhaled of him, deep, the warm masculine scent of the tuft of hair beneath his arm, the delicious earthy sweat of his ear and neck. “You have stirred life in me again, Sérelókë.”

“Mmm, well,” Sérelókë said quietly, well aware that he was nuzzling Iaun all over and very unwilling to stop. “Your weariness is speaking for you now. Rest and I shall watch over you.”

“Mm yes, that was the original plan, was it not?” Iaun said, detangling himself reluctantly and rubbing his wrists. The Elven rope was wise and kind and had caused him no bites, left only the mildest of marks - the sort that he would not be displeased to wear, for their erotic reminder. “If you would be so kind, my lord - my bedroll is in the pack by my clothes, and I am certain I could arrange it for two. And I would like to dress, at least my soft underclothes - I tend not to sleep in the nude when I am out in the wild.”

“A pity,” Sérelókë said. “I should like to keep you nude as much as is possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BDSM fantasy fic, not a how-to manual, more RACK than SSC, etc., you know the drill.
> 
> If you want to play with a dom who insists on making fun of your accent, that's your business, and depiction is not endorsement. But rigorously enforced linguistic discipline is something I think the Professor might _almost_ approve. (Almost)


	8. The Last Flower of Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sérelókë and Iaun see each other in a new light - very, very literally.

After dressing in his softest, most threadbare shirt and a pair of loose breeches, Iaun set down his pack and his weapons, and removed a neatly folded blanket. He stared at the crunching coat of fallen leaves for a moment, and then he laid the blanket down, spreading it out as far as it would go. He took his pack and fluffed it and placed it where his head would lie, at the base of the sentinel beech. Glancing around him, to test it out he lay down on his side and wrapped the blanket around him, but still left part of it trailing, waiting to be taken up. Sérelókë carried no bedroll that Iaun could see - and in that, Iaun saw an opportunity. 

“I am tired, Sérelókë, and the wind here grows chill. I would love a companion to warm my bed, and I will do my best to warm you if you choose to stay.”

“We are not completely safe here,” Sérelókë said, reluctant to let his stern manner drop quite so far just yet. “I’ll keep the first watch.” He slid back into a linen shirt and breeches of his own, and for a time, he paced. Often did he glance back where Iaun had curled himself into a small bundle, sheltered by his own threadbare cloak. Sérelókë did not pause too long for each slight stirring and sound, each glimpse of fair hair beyond the tangles of thick cloth, much as those small things delighted him.

In his thought did Sérelókë reach far through the wood, to the very edge of Doriath where the humming, singing walls of magic began, raised by his kinswoman Melian. Many are the forms the Maiar can take, and many are the paths they can choose to walk, but it seemed to him that Melian changed rarely if at all now, and all her power was given to her realm. Like the warm winds of spring, her will infused the land with watchful care, and in return the forest kingdom seem to flourish in a sort of gratitude.

Sérelókë could touch that thrumming barrier with his mind, as long as he did so in peace. There she was, or an emanation of her, guarded but not unkind. She had chosen to walk no path now but to stay still and take root, with her beloved and her land.

Perhaps Sérelókë too could choose to guard what he loved, were he willing to pay the price of patience.

In time, as he meditated upon these things, Sérelókë grew weary and longing, and at last he lifted Iaun’s blanket, crawling in to fit behind him as if they were two spoons. He wrapped his arm around Iaun’s belly to pull him close, and marvelled both at the impulse that had driven him to seek such contact, and at the sense of warmth and contentment that flooded him so easily when Iaun curved against him. 

“Shall I keep the next watch?” Iaun murmured.

“No need,” Sérelókë said. “We are all but invisible to hostile eyes, and you need your sleep. Let us rest together then.”

“So you have changed your mind about that,” Iaun said, sighing happily, and relaxed back against Sérelókë, pleased but silent at the arm that tightened round him. “Resting, I mean.”

“If that is what the people of this land do, then I ought at least to attempt it,” said Sérelókë. In truth he was finding that his limbs and eyelids felt unusually heavy, and the solid warmth of Iaun’s body against his, the rhythm of his breathing and his heartbeat, seemed to lull him, pulling him down into a pleasurable sense of darkness.

And so they slept.

Sérelókë stirred in little time, for he was not used to long passages of sleep, and the torpor that had come upon him ebbed as suddenly as it had come.

Iaun was warm in his arms, and still but for his slow deep breathing, and that sensation was yet so delightful that Sérelókë was reluctant to move. Iaun had given himself over to sleep so easily as long as Sérelókë was with him, and a surge of tender feeling moved unbidden in Sérelókë’s chest. Yet move, he must, restlessness had taken him over.

He pressed a kiss to the nape of Iaun’s neck by way of apology, and found himself trapped by an alert eye watching.

“Where are you going?” Iaun asked softly.

Sérelókë had no ready answer.

“Nowhere,” he said.

“Indeed,” Iaun said. “Nowhere at all. Except closer, I hope.”

Sérelókë smiled in the nightingaled darkness. “That may prove difficult, as close as we already are.”

With an unexpected agility, Iaun turned around in Sérelókë’s embrace, beneath the spread cloak that covered them. “I believe that you are not yet done with me,” he whispered, and leaned in and upward. “If I may, my lord?” Iaun asked, and it happened so quickly that Sérelókë was not quite sure what permission was requested. 

Sérelókë’s agreement was in his non-resistance as Iaun drew him down, and he felt a soft brush of Iaun’s lips against his. A gentle touch, a careful fitting together. A gradual increase in pressure, an opening, a moistness - a request, not a demand. Iaun’s tongue rose slowly, to explore Sérelókë’s lips and teeth with hopeful reverence.

Sérelókë had never experienced the like. It warmed him, enflamed his skin and set his member growing again, but slowly. Every taste of Iaun’s mouth and texture of his lips and tongue and teeth felt so detailed and varied, and most of all, the small intimacy of the act moved him as never before.

***

Iaun’s heart sang within him as he tasted Sérelókë deeply. Hesitant did the Maia seem at first, as though for all his skills in erotic torment, he had had little opportunity to kiss and be kissed. But he took to it quickly, and swiftly the dance of their mouths had Iaun once again maddened by desire as Sérelókë grew more forceful with his caresses.

Propped upon his elbows, Iaun invited Sérelókë’s advances, and his lips parted and tongue ventured forth to meet him halfway. This time Sérelókë claimed his mouth quickly, with no hesitance any longer - a wet, hungry grasping, parting and coming together again and again as their lips sealed. Iaun moaned and gave himself up to it, cradled in the pressure of Sérelókë’s hand at the back of his neck, drawing him in and then away again, each reunion harder and needier. “Oh, this is magnificent,” Sérelókë murmured, though the word was tangled and slurred by the other pursuits of his tongue.

Iaun was emboldened, and he ran his hands up Sérelókë’s long arms, guided by the lean lines of muscle up to his shoulders, and he dug in his fingertips as he let himself be lost in the pleasure of the kiss. Sérelókë felt solid and real against him, skin smooth and warm, breathing going deep and ragged. Iaun wriggled slightly in pleasure as Sérelókë pulled him closer, nudged away from his mouth and began to investigate his jaw and the side of his neck. Gently but firmly Sérelókë was pushing him down onto the cloaks and blanket, and Iaun obliged, tangling his hands in that thick dark hair as Sérelókë bit his throat lightly, threatening more pressure and sharpness, but not delivering, not yet.

Iaun pillowed his head in the roots of the great tree, and shivered as he lay back and let Sérelókë cover him, spreading his thighs to let him settle in, close and hard and eager. He arched his spine with every kiss and bite, sinking his nails into Sérelókë’s back, rewarded with a deep, slightly laughing groan and a sucking, licking slide down the top of his shoulder. “You always need little persuasion,” Sérelókë murmured into Iaun’s ear, nipping it lightly and giving it a tug with his teeth.

“I needed none at all,” Iaun said. “But am I not too easy to make a challenge for you? Would you rather I had fought you at first, as Gothmog did?”

“I would enjoy that, yes,” Sérelókë said. “Later we can play that game. But I do love to feel your desire. When you show me how much you want me.”

“It feels so marvelous, you know,” Iaun said, gasping and biting his lip as Sérelókë’s hardness pressed into the crease of his thigh and hip, tantalising, “with someone who is not a monster who’d as soon kill you as enjoy you.”

“So I am learning,” Sérelókë said as he lowered his attention to Iaun’s chest with its taut swells of muscle and pair of erect pinkish-brown tips that seemed to his eye to cry out for a sucking and a biting. “I am eager to explore that further.” 

Sérelókë licked and bit and teased until Iaun’s nipples were red and wet and sensitive, and he only left them reluctantly to work his way down Iaun’s belly, fingers dancing at the laces of his breeches, tongue fluttering just above the hot flesh that yearned to escape. Iaun made soft “oh” sounds and reached down to help push them off - but Sérelókë stopped him with a sharp glance. “Put your hands up around the tree now,” he commanded, and such was his tone that Iaun scrambled to obey him immediately. This left him exposed and trembling as Sérelókë finished stripping him.

 

A soft sound escaped Iaun’s throat, and he pushed his hips forward flush against Sérelókë’s body, draping a thigh over his hip and pulling him closer still. Sérelókë let his hand run the length of Iaun’s strong thigh and then clutch his hip close.

How strange it still was to use his body this way, as less a weapon and more an instrument in a duet, a music of moans and gasps and whispers, and the rustle of bodies shifting in the fallen leaves. Sérelókë brought his other arm up from underneath Iaun and began to caress his neck, fingertips shivering against his throat, feeling the sinews there working in the rhythm of their kiss, Iaun’s breath and pulse quickening. Sérelókë ducked his head and kissed Iaun’s throat, dragged his teeth gently down, and thrilled at his shivery sound of surprised joy.

Iaun writhed in growing abandon as Sérelókë nuzzled and nipped at his arms and shoulders, his mouth at work in surprisingly sensitive places.

“My lord,” Iaun managed to say, his voice cracked and yearning. “If I may - if I may speak . . .”

“Yes,” Sérelókë said. “Speak your mind, quickly.”

“I know that you enjoy me bound and helpless for you to work your will upon. I know that delights me, that I need it, that you have only begun to use me and fulfill me. But - many are the ways I wish to serve you.”

“I am intrigued,” Sérelókë said. “Tell me more.”

“I . . . wish to touch you,” Iaun said, eyes lifted up to Sérelókë’s face - not quite bold, but hopeful. “To explore you, to pleasure you with my hands. If you would allow it, I think you will find me - not unskilled.”

Sérelókë gave a small sound of delight and desire, unbidden and unexpected, but the skin he inhabited seemed to speak for him as he perceived that it began to feel more sensitive with the mere anticipation of Iaun’s caresses.

He let his chest fill slowly with deep breath full of the scent of Iaun and the forest loam intermingled, and released it in a satisfying, groaning sigh as he composed his response. “As you wish, my Iaun,” he said quietly, intently. “Undress me. Let me feel your touch. If you do not satisfy me at first, I shall tell you how to please me, in great detail.”

Iaun gave a soft cry, and moved with wondrous speed, yet still with a cautious movement like a half-tame cat. His deft, small archer’s hands went to work on Sérelókë’s clothing, baring the flesh below that was nearly as much of a costume to be donned and shed as the cloth that fell away from his shoulders. 

Sérelókë captured one of Iaun’s hands and examined it - it was much smaller than his own and stockier, its fingers strong and skilled for all their shortness. Without a word Sérelókë traced his thumb over the minute variations of softness and roughness, sinews and striations, every callus and scar that marked the years of fine detail work Iaun had done, and the strains and injuries he’d borne as warrior and healer both. Iaun’s hand was as a world entire, and Sérelókë wished to study it, to lose himself in its flexing and creasing. Soon, he would demand Iaun’s patience while he did exactly that, but for now, he wished to feel it upon him. He lifted Iaun’s wrist to his mouth and very gently nipped its soft underside, roving in a slow circle with the tip of his tongue, and then suddenly released it, free to perform its owner’s task.

 

With a small pleased sound, Iaun ran hands up Sérelókë’s chest and curled them around his shoulders to bring Sérelókë back down to him for more kisses. Now Sérelókë no longer doubted his own skill in a more tender, less violent sort of lovemaking or Iaun’s pleasure as he slid his tongue in and out in suggestive strokes, Iaun gasping and writhing beneath him, his firm and fat cockstand promising and strong in its rolling motions between Sérelókë’s legs.

“You shine,” Iaun whispered. “You give out light.”

“You are luminous in your way,” Sérelókë said, biting his lip as Iaun pinched one of his nipples. “Your hröa, your fëa, indivisible, it’s remarkable.”

“What, that I’m stuck?” Iaun said laughing as Sérelókë nudged up to look at him, and Iaun slid his hand between Sérelókë’s thighs, cupping and caressing to hear him moan. 

“Ah, that’s just it, Iaun,” Sérelókë said, smiling and letting Iaun pluck at the last of his clothing, freeing his burning member to the cooling night, eager and proud and incapable of shame. “You are . . . solid. Oh. In a way I am not.”

“You were made, and then you made yourself,” Iaun said - his expression awed, his hand daring and cheeky as the palm of his hand skittered too lightly over and around the head of Sérelókë’s cock, making him hiss. “Is this really you? Are you really in there somewhere?”

“I can - oh - expand outward and shrink within,” Sérelókë said, beginning to lose the connection between his thought and his words beneath Iaun’s patient, exploring caresses.

“Fill yourself out all the way,” Iaun said softly, persuading, demanding, begging. “Come all the way out to the surface of your skin. Where I can touch you. Please. My lord.”

“You are touching me,” Sérelókë said, “and I am enjoying it greatly, so please continue, but - oh--” he said, stopping short as he really did what Iaun had asked, his inner fire pulsing and bright within him, but cool and slow, nearly patient, as Iaun’s hands slowly brought him forward into an intimacy that nearly undid him. Sérelókë’s body flexed and relaxed as his hips ground down, pressing his cock forward, against heated skin.

Iaun’s strong, scarred body moved beneath him, fair and bright in the dark petals of his unwrapped clothing and the dark earth and leaves beneath him. His eyes still showed their twilight gleam, half-closed now in delight as Sérelókë leaned further over him, draping Iaun’s never-hurting leg over one arm and wrapping both their shafts at once in his long-fingered hand.

Harder now did they move, striving for pleasure against each other, lost in their cries and their singing sensations of skin and sweat. Iaun writhed for more pressure, and Sérelókë yearned to open him further, to take him again, sheathed inside and wrapped in his heat and light - and he would, oh he would, and Iaun would rise singing for the joy of it - but for now what they had was enough and nearly too much, shimmering inside and binding them together. Iaun was still slick with seed inside, but sore, and Sérelókë was careful with his pain - this was not the time for cruelty of that sort.

Iaun arched up hard and gave a cry, grasping Sérelókë’s thighs with a mighty squeeze as he went rigid and shook, covering Sérelókë’s hand and his cock with his spending, rich and white in the darkness. Taken over by the rapture of it, Sérelókë gave his answer, head bent to the forest canopy above, spilling wet and hot on Iaun’s belly.

They took harsh breaths together, gazing at each other. Sérelókë marveled at the pace of his heart and the strain in his chest, dizzy with delight and relief and a terrible searing fondness for the Elf who gazed up at him, enraptured. With a shaking laugh, Sérelókë pinned Iaun’s wrists again. “I am well pleased with your hands, Iaun. But I fear they can shape the game too short.” He leaned down to take Iaun’s mouth again, as Iaun arched up to meet him. “I am not finished with you.”

And then the world changed.

Sérelókë might have thought for just a moment that the blinding, new silver light spilling through the trees was all in his mind, bursting behind his eyes, a pure white fire that he and Iaun had made together and was theirs alone.

But it was outside them, and it was enduring, and it was no illusion. Iaun grasped his arm in sudden fear. 

A great dazzling light filtered through the forest branches as it slowly rose up the sky - blue-white and silvery, coming from a vast white circle glimpsed between the trees like a luminous face, a silver flower. Through the trees it came shining and steady - a gleaming light, blueish white, dappling the ground where it pierced through the branches of the trees.

At first it was blinding, especially for Iaun the child of starlight who had never known such a shine, and for a moment Sérelókë moved to shield him until his vulnerable eyes could adjust.

But Iaun nudged him gently away, and with hand upraised to his brow, he at last dared to gaze straight to the source, in amazement and awe.

Off among the trees, Certhasath whickered. Sérelókë perceived that though this was a thing huge and unfamiliar, the great horse was not afraid.

Sérelókë was startled and amazed, but he could reassure Iaun of this much at least. “I doubt this is cause for fear, Iaun. That is no device of the Enemy - his forces will be weakened by this light. They are strongest in darkness.”

“It’s so bright,” Iaun said, draping an arm over his eyes as he lay back among the leaves, his form relaxed and his stains forgotten. “I have never seen anything so bright. My eyes are not made for this.”

“Is it painful?” Sérelókë asked.

“It was at first,” Iaun said. “Now the pain is fading and nearly gone. I have never seen the forest outlined so clearly before. And you -“ he gazed up in awe. “In this light I see now how lovely you truly are.”

“And with new eyes I see you as well, Iaun,” said Sérelókë, looking closely and quickly absorbing every aspect of the new white light falling upon Iaun, especially the way it made shadows pool around the contours of his body, and the way it shimmered in his lashes and changed the size of the dark centres of his eyes. The drying spots of his seed still gleamed.

Reluctantly did Sérelókë remove his gaze from Iaun to study the new apparition in the sky. Within the round brightness were subtle shadows, lines and shadings, and Sérelókë drew in breath as the lines began to patch an image in the archive of his mind.

“Oh,” he finally said softly. “How desperate the Valar must be, Tilion. It is you, is it not? Of course it is. I question their choice but not yours. You have done well to be so honoured. It suits you.”

Then a thought hit him, an inevitability, a near-certainty, based on the evidence he now perceived. “There will be a greater light, Iaun, brighter and warmer and far more like to fire, if my predictions bear fruit. Your starlit world will change forever - for I know who it is that Tilion loves, and his light is as a candle to her bonfire. The Trees gave a last gift, I deem, and as the silver precedes the golden, the lesser precedes the greater. I think that before long, it is Arien who will ride across the sky, and the thralls of Melkor will curse her and be afraid.”

Iaun looked up at the round white light in the sky, no longer pained or frightened, and now apparently rather taken with its beauty. “That - is someone you know then?”

“I do believe that is Tilion, once a Maia of Oromë but also much given to dream in the gardens of Lorien. A wanderer, a dreamer, and a lover of all things of silver shade. There is no evil in him, but there is no discipline either.”

“Did you try?” Iaun asked, with a small sly smile.

Sérelókë caught his eye and laughed. “I played at it with him, in the gardens of Lorien. We were not compatible, but there was no ill will.”

Iaun lay back upon his elbows for a moment and gave a soft huffing laugh of amazement as he studied the play of the silver radiance on the leaves of the trees and Sérelókë’s hair. “What strange pleasure-fellows you choose, my lord. A demon of fire, a ball of white light in the sky.”

“Well, he was hardly shaped that like that at the time,” Sérelókë said, with a smile, his teeth white and sharp in the new light, his hands using Iaun’s cloak to mop at the mess on his belly. “I wonder how he appears now, at the helm of his bright vessel.” 

“And now you have a battered Elf to tag along on your wanderings,” Iaun said. “For as long as I can keep up, I deem. Not one of your own kind? Surely I do not rise to your standard.”

Sérelókë’s face grew stern for a moment. “Do you doubt my powers of sight, Iaun? Have I not demonstrated to you that I can discern what others may not?” He brought his hand to Iaun’s face, trailed the pad of his thumb over the seam of Iaun’s lips.

“You have,” Iaun agreed, barely daring to breathe over his touch.

“Then do not doubt that I see much in you that you have missed yourself. You are not one to gaze overlong at your own reflection - and even so, it would not show you one fragment of what I see in one glance upon your true face. Trust me, Iaun. You hold my interest, and I shall keep you.”

Iaun shivered and inhaled the air sharply through his nose, for he perceived that the new light had changed the air’s quality, with a subtle touch. “You presume much.”

“Perhaps,” said Sérelókë. “But I am so rarely wrong.”

Iaun looked away, and then back up at the silver beams that shone through to the ground between the branches of the beeches, shimmering as the breeze rearranged the leaf-shadows. He admired the way Sérelókë’s eyelashes caught the light, shining filaments about his deep, bright eyes. Sérelókë was infuriating in his pride. But he was not wrong. 

And since Iaun had no answer, Sérelókë ceased speaking for a while, absorbed in his study of Iaun and the new light. Iaun squirmed lazily beneath him, and dabbed at the mess of their intermingled seed upon his belly with the edge of his blanket.

“They have devised a vessel for him,” Sérelókë said at last. “Tilion is transformed, and become at last a being of light. The Valar have not forsaken your lands utterly.”

“Do you like what you see, still?” Iaun asked, teasing slightly.

“Idiot,” said Sérelókë fondly, caressing Iaun’s right thigh. “Must you sleep now, or shall we travel by this new light? I am keen to explore its effects beyond this glade.”

“Onward, then,” said Iaun, rising and re-dressing himself, arranging clothes and wiping at stains that now seemed much more prominent.

As they gathered their scattered possessions, Certhasath emerged from the woods and walked beside them. There was no hurry now, and Iaun felt no need to ride. Horse, Elf, and Maia wandered at relative ease as Tilion made his wavering, arching path across the sky, outlining every leaf and stone and blade of grass in silver, painting graceful white ripples on every bubbling stream.

They followed the river for a while, speaking little of where they were headed, until as Tilion began to disappear below the horizon, they paused to let Certhasath bow his great head to drink.

 

“Fear not, Iaun, this world has space enough for us to roam, and even some safety left in it,” said Sérelókë. “Here, what about this place. Were you not making your vague way in this general direction when I found you?” He pointed to the map he had drawn with his staff in the river-mud. “Melian will sense my presence at her gate, for she will recognize her kinsman and I am not minded to be subtle in my greeting. Already I am certain that she knows I am near.”

“Are you sure she’ll let us in?”

“Grudgingly perhaps, for she is quite reasonably fearful and protective of her own in this dangerous world, but I have never wronged her.”

“King Thingol allows no one to pass without his leave.”

“King Thingol is not the true authority in Doriath,” Sérelókë said smiling, hoisting his pack onto his shoulder. “But be mindful and behave. I hear they have a pretty daughter.”

“So I have heard tell also. I shall be glad to look upon her,” Iaun said. 

“With only your eyes?” asked Sérelókë.

Iaun gave a rakish grin, sidelong at Sérelókë. “I seek no jewel for my bed but the one that’s already adorned it.”

“That was no bed,” Sérelókë muttered. “Just a forest floor.”

“Well, if they have beds in Menegroth, I hope we make use of them if we have the chance.”


	9. The City of the Thousand Caves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A respite and refuge, from everything but politics.

Seven courses did Tilion make across his sky of black and silver and gloaming blue, and then Sérelókë’s prediction bore fruit as blazing Arien cast the world in a light of warming golden fire. Iaun was glad for the shelter of the trees and the new green- and gold- dappled beauty of their leaves, and for the reassuring knowledge of his companion. Still Sérelókë turned away from the new sky-vessel that hurt to look upon, and watched instead to the west, turning his noble head as a hound cocks its ears. “She seems to bring a sound of trumpets, does she not?” he said, whimsically. “A din of war-songs. Imagine how her light would glint on golden armour. I sense that the rest of the war long-delayed has now reached the eastern shores.”

Iaun only declared his wonder at this knowledge and apparent sudden fancy, but did not press him further. Sérelókë was not inclined to speak more of it for the time.

With a destination and a sense of time pressing upon them, Sérelókë and Iaun availed themselves of Certhasath’s generosity once again. As they rode through the forest, Iaun became aware of a prickling sensation - the sense of being watched, yet again. The march-wardens had a quality to their watching that was quick and challenging, yet not at all like the malice of the Enemy.

This was different still. Iaun could not place it. He turned to Sérelókë, who was clearly aware of the watching eyes also - and saw with some surprise that the Maia’s gaze kept turning not around them, but upward, into the canopy of trees.

Sure enough, high in the branches above them there came a great shaking and rustling, as of the springtime chasings of very large squirrels.

Iaun was surprised, but Sérelókë apparently was not, when, of all things, an Elven maiden swung down out of the branches and landed gracefully directly in front of them. Iaun could not help but stare, for as fair as all women of his race were, he had never seen the like of this girlish vision with the stars in her eyes and the twilight in her hair - as well as twigs and leaves. Her bare feet were white and lissome - and rather scuffed with dirt. Iaun was amazed that the dirt dared to cling to her.

Youthful she seemed, barely grown to full womanhood, yet her eyes held the knowing calm of thousands of years, and an otherworldly light shone from her face. Her dress and blue mantle were slightly ripped and grass-stained, as those of one who is at ease in the forest and likes to dance barefoot on the earth and climb the trees, the better to watch her world unfold beneath her and undisturbed by her.

The challenge in her eyes was fearless, yet not warlike. She was simply who she was, curious and self-possessed. Iaun wondered at this place, that a maid of such stunning beauty who carried no weapons he could see could wander the forest freely alone, in no danger. All the legends of Melian’s guarding power must be true then, and Iaun wondered even more that he and Sérelókë had crossed the borders of Doriath so easily.

Sérelókë was quick to greet the maiden with great courtesy, dismounting and bowing low. She extended a bramble-scratched hand, and he kissed it like a courtier. “We come in peace, my lady,” he said. “We seek the house of the Queen Melian, my kinswoman, and her consort, King Thingol of the Sindar.”

“Well, I know where to find them,” she said with merriment in her voice, after she had taken their measure for long moments, with eyes that saw well past their seemings.

“I imagine you do,” Sérelókë said with surprising warmth. “I beg you lead the way then - for I perceive you cannot be other than my kinswoman’s daughter. - if it please you, princess of this realm.”

With laughter like bells, like the music of a mountain stream, she smiled and began to run, swift as a deer, and Sérelókë swung back up on Certhasath so he and Iaun could follow after, the great horse cantering slowly as if he too liked to watch the girl kick up her heels in the tall green grass.

“Your kinswoman?” Iaun muttered softly.

“Melian is Maiar, like myself,” Sérelókë said. “All of the Ainur are kin. In a manner of speaking.”

“Hm,” Iaun said, considering this, finding it disturbing. “But you said Gothmog was . . . “

“Loosely interpreted, Iaun,” Sérelókë said, chuckling. “You need not add incest to my list of scandals, unless it please you. Otherwise, you would need stern words for the Valar as well, many of whom are espoused to one another. I suggest you not pursue that line of thought much further, for it will only bog you down in a marsh. And you are ill-equipped to find your way out again.”

Disgruntled and vaguely insulted, Iaun just nodded his head towards the royal maiden who led them towards the entrance to the City of the Thousand Caves, leaping every tuft of turf like a hare. “And she?”

Sérelókë turned his head and gave Iaun a stern glance, though his lips smiled. “I suppose I do regard her as a sister-daughter, nonetheless. Mind yourself.”

Iaun shook his head. “She is a joy to look upon, and I wish I had long years to look only. Word had reached even my little settlement of the beauty of Lúthien, and never did I think to see her with mine own eyes; that is a great privilege. But -“

And he let that hang on the air for a moment, for even in his slow-wittedness compared to his companion, he thought he might have perceived a tiny shred of what Sérelókë truly feared.

He waited for words to emerge from Sérelókë’s mouth with the lilt of a question. They did not come. Those piercing eyes, however, pinned him to the silence until Iaun could bear it no longer. “But I said this before I saw her, and now I know I spoke truth. All I want in my bed, should our hosts grant me one, is more of what I’ve already had. I would have thought you as far above my station as she, had you not already let me taste.”

Sérelókë smiled and drew Iaun close against him. “Above you I may be in some ways, Iaun, but you do me great honour by your service. Now look close and keep your wits about you, such as they are, for I perceive we are about to see wonders.”

A great causeway of stone stretched out ahead of them, narrow and high-walled, at a dizzying span above the rushing river. Certhasath hesitated at first, until the Elven maid turned around and smiled at him, calling softly - between their thighs both Sérelókë and Iaun could feel the great horse relax at her urging and begin the crossing, trusting her utterly.

“Why does she allow us to pass so easily?” Iaun asked. “I expected a far greater trial.”

“There has been a trial already, Iaun,” Sérelókë said. “She looked within me and she saw my true form. Any attempt to deceive would have turned her against me, and I am not accustomed to be so clearly seen. Yet it could be no other way - Lúthien is very much her mother’s daughter, and her mother is well aware of our coming.”

Iaun started to speak, but his questions were lost in awe as they approached the great stone gateway to the mountainside, resplendent with graceful carvings. His keen senses registered the sleepless guards - archers in the trees, spearmen at the threshold - but perceived no threat from them. A warm shiver passed over him as the gateway yawned slowly open at the lightest touch of Lúthien’s fair hand, and the vast chambers of Menegroth spread out in all directions beneath them and above them and around them.

A touch from Sérelókë warned him it was time to dismount, and Iaun let himself be lowered to the ground with no struggle, no concern for indignity. He was too awed by the alien beauty of the massive pillars and comparatively delicate stonework of the network of pathways and stairs that connected each terraced layer of the city’s levels.

“Oh,” said Sérelókë, sounding nearly as overwhelmed. “See, that design - those sharp, interwoven angles. This is what the people created by Aulë have made - I see those patterns as though they have passed straight from his hands through theirs. And yet there is also the influence of the First-born here, for these halls of stone yet remember great trees, and if the roof of the caves allows no true light through, they have still made certain to find a way to suggest starlight in their design.”

“It’s beautiful,” Iaun said.

“It is more than that,” Sérelókë said. “If one wishes to know what a people loves, one should study what they imitate. Artifice is more revealing than nature in that way.”

They were not alone - the curious eyes of a hundred Elves watched them from windows and parapets in the shimmering lamplight. The cunning craftsmen of Doriath had rigged long strings of lanterns that brought a constant golden twilight backdrop, and to Sérelókë’s eyes, there seemed to be brighter tones waxing and waning, gold and silver by slow turns - a subtle and heart-stirring reminder of the Western homeland and the two trees that now shone only in memory.

A memory none of the dwellers in this city would have, but one.

She did not have a herald to announce her presence, nor did she need one. Iaun fell to his knees instinctively, and even Sérelókë lowered his eyes from her radiance for a long moment, needing time to adjust to her.

It was hard to say if Melian was more beautiful than her daughter or not, but the light in her eyes waxed gold to Lúthien’s silver. She was slender and strong, and her dark golden mantle spread long and broad behind her, fading back into the shadows of her hallways.

Her voice when she spoke sang low and melodious, and carried effortless through her halls of stone and moss and flickering light, when she wished it so. “My kinsman Sérelókë of Valinor,” she said, and her voice was not yet warm. “Long and swift have you traveled, and yet rumour of your deeds has preceded you.”

Sérelókë bowed low, and then raised his head proudly. “I come in peace, my lady, and openly I travel. I have no secret designs.”

“It is well you did not intend such,” Melian said. “For you would not keep secrets from me long, and I would not give you such warm welcome had you tried. But come - who is your companion? He shows more humility than is warranted - a fair counterpoint to you, Sérelókë, who ever shows less.”

Iaun lifted up his head, and to his relief Sérelókë perceived mild mirth upon his face - and also upon Melian’s. “My lady, I am Iaun Hossiôn of the woodlands. I had never thought to look upon the faces of any of the Maiar, and now I am in the company of two - and of the lady Lúthien, who has beauty indistinguishable. How shall I behave in the face of such riches, but to bow my head and rest my exhausted eyes?”

“Oh, a smooth tongue you have,” Melian said, as her face opened in a warmer smile.. “And I see you have captivated one of the Ainur already. There is much more to you than is apparent at first glance. Welcome, Iaun of the woodlands, and let not your heart be troubled. Bide your time if you will, while I speak for a little with your companion, for long has it been since I have seen one from my homeland.”

“Mother, if I may,” said Lúthien, emerging suddenly from the shadows in a cool swirl of exquisite scent. “I shall summon my ladies and have a meal prepared, for he must be hungry even if Lord Sérelókë is not.”

“If it please thee, daughter,” said Melian as she stepped forward tall and proud to take Sérelókë’s arm in a courtly - but stern and imperious - fashion.

If it concerned either Maia to leave a stunned and enraptured Iaun in the company of several entrancingly beautiful Elven maids, they showed it not upon their faces. But Sérelókë did cast one lingering gaze over his shoulder, and much passed unspoken between him and Iaun in that moment.

 

***

Far from the watching eyes of the court Melian and Sérelókë strolled, on a narrow catwalk carved within the great central plaza of the city and high above all but its topmost layers. But for the massive tree roots that spiralled and swirled as huge as columns, and had chambers and apartments carved in their largest boles with windows that gleamed and lanterns that glittered, Menegroth would have seemed more a Dwarven city than an Elven one.

Still, they kept their manners about them, for the habit was easier to maintain than to let drop and take up again. Equal in rank in Valinor, here they were not. Yet to them this was no more than another change of forms, and far simpler and less costly than most.

“It can be no coincidence that you appear at the very moment of such great tumult,” Melian said. When she smiled like that, the gold light of lanterns shivered. “Vairë’s hand is not so lazy, and I have read portents in your flight, stormcrow. You come knowing more than you tell - and perhaps seeing more than you know.”

“Keenness of sight has ever been my gift,” said Sérelókë. “And my quest - to grow my wisdom and to understand all that I see.”

“Gifts can turn to curses quickly, brother mine,” said Melian, not unkindly. “Particularly for one who has never been content with his lot. I have learned patience here, and appreciation of the small changes of the land - and now I do not take well to change that comes great and sudden. I would not see your own skill warped to your own suffering. Nor to the suffering of any that we hold dear.”

Sérelókë looked away, for his expression would displease her, and she tightened her grip on his forearm. 

“It is not that I mistrust you,” she said. “You swim in deep waters, and cannot always foresee what you will find - or how it will change you.”

“As did Ossë,” Sérelókë said with rueful smile. “And yet he found his way back, did he not?”

“At great cost,” said Melian. “And many are they who will not return, and we shall rue their loss before the world is remade.”

“I am not like Mairon,” Sérelókë said, and he held her fathomless gaze that was deep green as the gloaming amid the pines.

“Mairon himself was not always like Mairon,” Melian reminded him. “But that is true, you are not. Still, though we are ancient, this world is young and it works upon us in ways we cannot always foresee. Have you not begun to feel it already?”

“Do you mean the way that we find ourselves slower and more difficult to change form?” Sérelókë asked with some eagerness, for he had noticed this and found it fascinating. “That one comes to feel more rooted in a form that suits this land?”

“Indeed, that is part of it,” Melian said. “Long have I been here, and much of myself have I given and woven into the warp and woof of all you see before us. This is my realm, and as it grows, it binds me. I am not now certain that I could leave it for any time, or return to the West at will - if I tried, I am sure it would cause my spirit such trial I could not bear separation for long.”

“With all due respect, my royal sister, that may also be because you have married. Of all the things to which you have lent your essence, surely the greatest part of that resides in your daughter.”

“Yes, you see that clearly, and I cannot truly tell what would become of me should I leave them, for I will never willingly do so. I will tell you this, Sérelókë, brother mine - you and your companion are welcome within my domain as long as you do nothing that will bring danger upon this place. Should I ever have cause to regret those words, I shall not hesitate to banish you.”

“Understood, my lady, and I thank you,” Sérelókë with a little bow. Already he was thinking that soon his drive to know must resent its confinement in safety - yet a period of respite and research would suit him well, and he did not forget that Iaun was in need of a deeper healing than he yet understood.

“And you will find me not ungenerous,” said Melian, and now her smile was fond and tinged with mischief. “I am not fooled by the glamour that deflects the eye from mated pairs that are of other than the expected nature. Yet tongues shall wag enough with your arrival and the rumours it brings. I shall allow the tale that you require two bedchambers, and I am sure you will find some use for the one that you and your Silvan consort do not occupy. Yet if you are still wont to play with noxious fumes, as I remember, I do request you contain those to a hall with a window facing Angband.”

Sérelókë laughed - he had not expected his kinswoman to trust him, only to give him a chance, and he found relief in her wit. “Many leagues lie between here and there, Melian. I know for I have recently crossed them. I would have little to contribute to that awe-inspiring stench.”

“Many leagues indeed, and yet I wish for many more,” Melian said. “That distance seems short enough in the bright light of our new sun, and shorter still when our new moon wanders. Still, we grow accustomed to the new brightness, and it is a bane to our enemies, so I shall make peace in my heart with whatever it brings. Be welcome and forgive me, for you must understand I have too much to lose to relax my guard.”

“I understand it well, and I have cause to praise your vigilance,” Sérelókë said.

“My vigilance has grown much sharper since I came to this land,” said Melian. “And I have not been tamed by love, as I have heard is said of me. It has made me more fierce, though I need not always show it. Perhaps you will understand that ere long.”

“I believe I do understand how that could work upon you,” Sérelókë said.

“That is a shallow understanding,” said Melian. “In time you may come to understand it deeply.”

Sérelókë nodded and looked away, for he did not wish to follow this thread of her thought any further. “You do not seek your husband’s counsel on the matter of whether to admit two guests, I observe.”

“Would you have preferred to seek a formal audience in his great hall, Sérelókë?” Melian asked with a sly little smile. “You have never yet mastered the art of the petitioner.”

“It is true, there are many arts that delight me more.”

“Yes, I have heard tell of such arts of yours,” Melian said, and her voice had gone thick with suppressed laughter.

Indignant, and perhaps a bit abashed, he turned again to read her gaze, but she held up her hand. “It is your music I speak of, Sérelókë.” Her dancing eyes suggested otherwise. “If you left your viol behind when you crossed the sea, worry not, the art of instrument-making has grown great in these lands and I would have you try your skill upon them, in my hall, if you are amenable.”

“I would be delighted. Sister mine,” Sérelókë said. And relieved, he thought.

***

Iaun had long heard tales of the great city carved beneath the forested hills of Doriath, and in truth, he had found it difficult to imagine such a place being as vast as the legends claimed. In his mind’s eye he had seen only a simple dark grotto or cave, no matter how he tried to conjure grandeur in his mind.

Now Iaun felt regret for the poverty of his imagination, for Menegroth was anything but dark and close and dreary - it was an expansive realm of space and subtle light, an intricate and seemingly endless series of walkways and halls, woven around great pillars of stone that seemed to sway and grow like giant trees. The best of both Elven and Dwarven craftsmanship had been brought to bear to produce this crown of invention, of the labours of vast numbers. Exquisite stone and metal work wrought the illusion of living forest and mountains, with glimmering star-like lights and the singing water music of fountains that dripped and flowed from level to level and fed lush green mosses that painted and padded the city’s pillars and paving stones. And within this illusion, the birds that fluttered and trilled in the carven branches were real.

Thus it was that the children of stars and forest did not feel lost or sundered from their nature in such a place, though they had come from many lands under the sky to dwell here in Thingol and Melian’s realm, under their protection and hidden from the evil things that walked the lands outside.

Even Lúthien herself, or the lady’s maids who walked with her, did not look upon him with the pity or contempt he’d feared - for Iaun was but one Wood-Elf among many, and they were the bulk of this great city’s people. And the chambers he was escorted to took his breath away - he would have been happy with a simple cell with only a bed and wash-basin and a place to work. What he received was a series of interlocking, vaulted rooms, fitted with fine tables and chairs. The Elven women took obvious pleasure in his surprise and delight as they lead him through the chambers, pointing out the two rooms taken up with enormous canopied beds and the little hallway that led to a room where water pooled in a natural warm spring. One of the women unrolled a little scroll and handed to him, pointing out where in the map the nearest kitchen could be found.

There were other locations of interest marked there as well - the armouries, and the huge levels where all the craftsmen worked to render further beauties, for the building on the city was an ongoing labour. Tailors and leather workers seemed of special interest, for the women were quick to point out that Iaun might be in want of fresh clothes. “You’re comely already and will be far more so when you dress well,” said one with fair hair. Iaun flushed from his forehead to his chest.

“Watch your fresh tongue,” jested one of her friends, “lest his companion turn you into a Balrog of very weak flame.”

Iaun started to splutter an objection, though he was not sure where to start precisely. The women seemed to evaporate out the door in a swirl of gowns and soft laughter, and wherever they had been, Iaun found treasures. A small feast and large jug of wine on a sideboard. A stack of folded clothes far too rich for his station on an opulent bed.

The sensation that traveled through and over him at the sight and scent of these things, the textures of fine fabric and leather, was breathtaking, a warm elation even as he was mortified to accept such extravagant gifts. The thrill - and in truth, the slight shame - was that he knew for whose sake it was that his welcome had been so generous. And indeed, by the standards of this place, it was not extravagant at all, merely the minimum of a pleasant life here lived in dignity.

With some conflict between eagerness and reluctance, Iaun unfolded a deep green robe of a soft, warm material that seemed to caress his fingers, imagining how it would feel on his skin. He started to shed his travel-worn clothes with relief and regret, deciding what could be cleaned and salvaged and what his new hosts might deem not worth it. He gave himself a quick swab from the washbasin as he changed, trying not to think too hard just yet of the bath and the bed and Sérelókë’s return. The food beckoned, and so did thoughts of what his companion might do to his willing self - though he knew Sérelókë was probably discussing matters of great import to vast realms with his fellow Maia, Iaun was here thinking only of the region between his own chest and knees.

A grumble of his stomach drove the matter home, and he allowed himself a piece of that fair, still-warm bread, dragged through butter and honey. It was light but filling, suffusing his mouth with a rush of subtle flavours. It calmed the pangs of his belly but awakened his tongue to other pleasures lying in wait beneath the domed silver plates.

If he could be sure he wouldn’t have long to wait, he thought, he might like to greet Sérelókë on his knees, presenting a cup of wine. Surely that would earn a generous reward of punishment. Yet Sérelókë had suggested he liked a firm line drawn between when he was friend and equal and when he was lord and master, and Iaun thought perhaps he should think of another way to make it clear just how much he wanted to be thrown onto that bed and ravished.

The robe, perhaps? It was clearly meant to be worn over the light grey breeches of a more delicate material folded with them, but Iaun decided to forgo those for now, enjoying a share of the breeze and freedom of nakedness, especially as he left the top clasps open. He lifted the stopper of the jug of wine and sniffed, feeling the scent of it infuse him with anticipation before he even took a taste. Carefully he poured a generous dram into one of the silver cups, admiring its workmanship as he did so.

Iaun felt slightly ridiculous. Costumed, even, comfortable as he was. He heard Sérelókë’s mocking words ringing in his mind: “Is it your wish that I should dress you in finery and keep you as my catamite? Do you imagine we have such luxuries in Valinor?” Iaun had not imagined that about Valinor, true - and yet now he did like the fact that it might be so in Menegroth, for at least a short while. He did indeed find himself hoping that Sérelókë might enjoy that thought as well.

For a time. Iaun had never experienced the lassitude of luxurious bondage, and he was not sure which of the pair of them would weary of it sooner. 

Iaun found there was no use in planning his greeting anyway, for he jumped to attention and stood straight up as the door opened, and Sérelókë strode in and looked at the stocked sideboard with with a wry little smile. “Oh, you mustn’t deny yourself on my account, Iaun. Did I say you had to wait for me? Of course not.”

“Well, in that case,” Iaun said, all but lunging at the table.

“On the other hand,” Sérelókë said, stepping quickly in between Iaun and his inert prey. “I should warn you that we have been invited to dine at King Thingol’s table at the waxing of the silver lanterns. It is for you to decide if you wish to risk ruining your . . . appetites.” He spoke this last with a sharp-toothed leer.

“Oh, Sérelókë,” Iaun said. “I shall regret it dearly if I ever give you cause to underestimate my appetites.”

“And you would be most unwise to underestimate mine,” said Sérelókë, stalking closer. “That robe is very pleasing upon you. But it would please me more to see you upon it, bare to my gaze and my touch.”

“Have we time before you must tame yourself before royalty?” Iaun asked, allowing himself a small challenging grin.

“I require a little time to be wholly untamed,” Sérelókë said. “I take it you are agreeable.”

“That is no question, my lord,” said Iaun.

Sérelókë’s hand shot out like a striking serpent to clasp Iaun’s neck and drag him in for a stinging kiss.

Iaun’s whole body sang with the call to yield and go soft as warm desire trickled down his back and bloomed in his thighs, making him nearly fall to the floor. Yet Sérelókë’s touch also teased him awake and alert with its sharp stings, that quick hand stealing into his open robe and stinging his nipples with biting fingernails, those sharp teeth hidden deceptively behind plush lips plucking and pinching at his lips and his cheek and his ear and his throat.

He put up no resistance as Sérelókë backed him up towards the bed, and he made no fight to stand as Sérelókë shoved him down. In desperate anticipation Iaun waited for Sérelókë to fall upon him and use him roughly - and yet he was kept waiting. Sérelókë looked regal as he stood there, slowly shedding cloak and tunic, at last bare-chested and wearing only his boots and thin breeches that clung so enticingly to the long bulge stretching them.

 _I am caught in his enchantment with no way out and no desire to find one, Iaun thought. This must be not unlike the way Thingol fell into Melian’s grasp._ And it is no wonder he never wished it otherwise or put up any struggle. Still, Iaun could not help but wonder why Sérelókë now paid more attention to the offerings of food and drink than he had before. He watched, as the Maia bypassed the jug of wine and took up a smaller, more exquisite bottle and lifted the stopper and sniffed, his striking face transformed by a brief swoon of pleasure that aroused Iaun’s jealousy.

Sérelókë studied him then, taking in his look of puzzlement. “Oh, of course, Iaun,” he said finally. “You have never had this treasure. Lie still, and I shall give you a great reward you’ve yet to earn. Lie very still.”

Iaun did, though it was difficult as Sérelókë crept towards him, slipping one long finger suggestively through the narrow mouth of the little bottle, in and out. He pulled it out, slick and wet, as he rested his weight on one knee on the bed by Iaun’s side. “Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, pressing his finger through Iaun’s lips. “Lick,” he whispered. “Suck.”

Iaun did, and marvelled at the golden glory that trickled across his tongue and went straight to his head with a bolstering, dizzying warmth. He savoured the taste of it, and sucked Sérelókë’s finger as he longed to suck elsewhere, making a helpless sound of loss and delight as his master withdrew from his mouth and then came back with more. “What is that?” he managed to gasp after the third taste.

Sérelókë lifted the bottle to his own mouth and took a little sip - and then he bent down to seal his lips to Iaun’s and give him the thickest flood of it yet, a shared drink that went on and on until Iaun felt close to drowning in golden light, and his whole body sang out for caresses.

 _“Miruvórë,”_ said Sérelókë. “The genuine sort, from Valinor. The nectar of Yavanna’s flowers and the honey of her bees, the elixir of the feasts of the Ainur. If Lúthien gave you this, Iaun, it can only be because you are welcomed as kin.”

“Are you sure it was meant for me and not you, my lord?” Iaun asked.

“It was meant for you because of me,” said Sérelókë quietly. “Did Lúthien not let you know in some way that she saw us for what we are?”

Iaun closed his eyes - the golden liquor had made him muzzy, dreamy, too ready to believe in impossibilities. “She said - they said. Well. They know, or they guessed.”

Sérelókë shook his head. “Melian and her daughter do not _guess._ You are kin to them because you are mine, and they see that clearly. But if my own sight does not fail me, they will love me less than you before the end.”

“I do not flatter myself I can see so far as you, my lord,” said Iaun, for his hands were nearly rising of their own will, so great was their desire to touch Sérelókë, to tangle in his hair, to return his mouth to Iaun’s own. For all that it sometimes troubled his mind that Sérelókë was so quick to call him “mine,” the sound yet sang in his heart and heated his blood. 

How could it be, that he could find himself claimed so utterly and so quickly, the bond between them forged so fast and yet visible to so many? For certainly Melian and Lúthien had clearer sight than most, but was it there for all to see, that he and Sérelókë were bound to one another?

Something began to move in Iaun’s spirit then, a thrill of an entwined hope and fear, knotting in his chest and falling through his belly - dissolving in desire, as for once, the ways of fate felt warm to him, letting him fall softly through layers of longing. For if such as they believed that Iaun had found his place, who was he to gainsay them?

Obediently he lay still, waiting for Sérelókë to take pity on his patience.

He knew that if it was Sérelókë’s will to deny him, that wait could be long indeed, but for the invitation from the King that even Sérelókë could not disdain, not if he wished to remain in Melian’s graces. So there was a limit to the stretch of Iaun’s yearning, and indeed it was not long before Sérelókë reached down and unfastened the last clasps of Iaun’s robe at his belly and drew the rich cloth aside, laying him bare to a penetrating gaze. Iaun accepted it over every inch of him, growing erect under Sérelókë’s close regard, willing himself with great effort into stillness - fighting the urge to writhe, to spread his legs and open his arms in supplicating invitation.

Well aware Iaun was that Sérelókë could sense his struggle, and that lush but cruel mouth smiled to see it.

“Am I too cruel to you?” he asked, expecting no answer and receiving none. “You are hungry, after all, and I cannot have you come starving to the king’s table. I will not have it said of me that I take poor care of what is mine.” He watched Iaun’s eyes move as Sérelókë’s long hands slowly loosened the laces of his own breeches. Serelókë did not miss a single movement of Iaun’s face as he drew out his staff of flesh, thick and long and ready, displaying it in his hand. Quickly he swung a long leg over and straddled Iaun, giving him a good close look, but still too far away for Iaun to do as he desired most. 

Iaun felt his mouth watering, and then his own eyes widening as Sérelókë took up the crystal bottle of miruvórë and poured a small stream into his hand - and proceeded to anoint his own member with it, dripping golden drops upon Iaun’s chest. Sérelókë closed his eyes for a moment in sensation. “It burns a bit, Iaun - but not a hard burn, merely as though I had moved close to a warming fire. I can feel it move through my skin and soon it shall seep lightly into my mind.”

“What little taste of it I have had - I do assure you, my lord, I’m ready for more,” said Iaun, licking his lips as if it were the only motion he were allowed, which indeed it was.

“I know I have kept you long from this wish of yours,” said Sérelókë with a smile as he rose up on his knees, canting his hips forward until the head of his member drew close enough to meet the tip of Iaun’s tongue. Iaun stretched forward and savoured the honeyed salt at the head, closing his eyes in utter bliss. Sérelókë’s hands balanced his weight on the pillow by Iaun’s head, trapping his hair a little painfully, and Iaun gave a groan of relieved satisfaction as the long column of Sérelókë’s arousal sank slowly into his mouth, steeped in the sweet and heady tang of _miruvórë._

Long moments stretched out into the sliding rhythm as Iaun relaxed into his delight, daring to tighten his mouth to suck and move his tongue to caress, licking the sweet, strong spirit of Valinor from every vein and crease, drawing in cool rushes of air through his nose and savouring Sérelókë’s appreciative sounds. _Miruvórë_ was warming and calming and so was Iaun’s own satisfaction in being used, in being pleasing, in watching the changes of his master’s face as Sérelókë came slowly undone. With every gasp and groan of praise, with every deep thrust pinning his head to the pillow, Iaun felt his spirit soar.

Small and cherished was his world and his vision, the strain and flex of Sérelókë’s lovely hips and thighs, the gasp of his breath and the soft wet lapping sounds, the fragrant tuft of dark hair that sometimes brushed Iaun’s lips. Sérelókë’s hands tugged at Iaun’s hair - one hand holding him down, the other sometimes cupped around Iaun’s head or stroking over his cheeks and ears, reading him by touch, trailing through the wetness that leaked from his mouth. “My Iaun, you take it so well,” said Sérelókë, his voice a husky growl. “Do you wish to drink from me? To take all I have been saving to give you?” he asked, then chuckled as he realised that Iaun could not answer but for a nod of his head, lips tugging eagerly on Sérelókë’s soft skin.

As skilled as he had been at holding still, Iaun could not help but writhe and arch his back just a little as Sérelókë used him and at last drew back a little, his cock only half in Iaun’s mouth as he went rigid for a long hanging moment, his head thrown back to let Iaun gaze up the long bowed line of his chest and long neck. Iaun made a high whine of delight at the elixir that flooded his mouth and throat, thicker and more bitter than miruvórë, but as long desired.

Breathless and wild-eyed, Sérelókë gazed down upon him, his shining silver eyes watching Iaun swallow. Iaun closed his eyes for a moment and and looked up again, still letting his lips lightly suck as Sérelókë withdrew, leaving a wet trail down his chin. “You spoil me, my lord,” Iaun said, amazed at himself that he could still draw sound from his hard-used throat, much less clever words from his mind. “Treating me to all of the finest ambrosias of Valinor.”

“Well-spoken, my Iaun,” Sérelókë said, cradling the side of Iaun’s face in one of his large hands, slightly sweaty and trembling. “No doubt you think highly of your skills now.” He gave Iaun’s jaw a small warning squeeze.

Iaun held his tongue, but he was sure the smile in his eyes must convey his pride.

“As you should,” Sérelókë conceded. “But now I shall test your capacity for stillness and silence.”

Iaun already nearly shamed himself as Sérelókë braced hands on the bed and Iaun’s chest and vaulted himself downward, pausing only to take licking bites of Iaun’s nipples before he dived straight down Iaun’s quivering belly.

“I want you to hold out for as long as you can,” Sérelókë said, peering out from under his dark hair with Iaun’s cock bobbing anxiously at his chin. “I shall punish you if it’s not long enough to please me.”

Iaun bit his lip as he heard Sérelókë take a deep breath, felt that large dextrous hand grasp his member for a moment before it was engulfed in slick, clinging heat.

Bravely did Iaun hold out against Sérelókë’s sensual assault for as many of those wet throbbing pulls as he could. One glance down to watch Sérelókë work, the head of Iaun’s staff swelling those fair hollowed cheeks, those full, generous lips stretched tightly around his girth, that rich thick hair falling and bouncing with each movement of the Maia’s graceful head - oh, that nearly did for him much too soon, and he was forced to close his eyes and recall the stinking marsh full of rotting Orc bodies to bring himself back from the edge of pleasure’s cliff. He was nearly lost again when Sérelókë’s hands gripped his thighs and pulled them further apart, granting room to nudge at his full heavy stones with nose and mouth and fingers. Sérelókë gave a smug laugh through his mouthful as though he could read each beat of Iaun’s struggle. 

As always under Sérelókë’s command, he was quickly learning, Iaun felt sublimely helpless, thoroughly plundered, and a wild surging power surrounding and lifting him. He breathed deep, panting, letting all the rest of his body go limp but for the part of him where all his mind was centered now in the caressing stretch and squeeze of Sérelókë’s mouth. He had been so close to the brink again and again, and now found a new calm within him, to surrender to waves of warm darkness and simply relax, a second wind until a new peak of pleasure was upon him.

It came with Sérelókë’s hands mounting a tender attack between his thighs, his balls lightly tugged and the hidden space behind and beneath them rubbed hard with a vibrating pressure.

Yet Iaun had not spent as he expected - for all the power of these beats of delicious agony swelling within him, they gave forth no issue - nothing for his master to drink, and no sensation of relaxation, no blissful relief. Yet Sérelókë’s labours never paused nor stalled. Iaun wondered now if he were in the grip of some cruel enchantment, for the delaying of his climax was now far beyond his own will. He was ashamed to have lost his resolve so quickly that he chased it rather than fighting for it, felt the punishment of its lack, and was nearly frightened at what possible force could be keeping him for so long in the very moment of falling out of resistance into complete surrender.

Long did Iaun hang in such sweet torment, striving and yet never fully arriving - until he felt Sérelókë’s lips tighten again around his shaft in a tensing of soft, cruel laughter. For through his watering eyes, Iaun perceived a silvering of the city’s lamps, and his trembling ears received a deep faraway chime of great silversteel bells. He nearly wept as Sérelókë pulled away, still hovering close enough to torment Iaun’s desperate flesh with his breath.

“The call to the feast begins, Iaun,” said Sérelókë in a low voice roughened by the long exertions of his mouth. “Your will is strong. I fear I cannot break it before Elwë Thingol’s supper, and we must not be late. We must wait til after to bring you to relief.”

Iaun practised his sullen resentment even as he lay there quivering in frustration, for he suspected that he had been treated unfairly in some respect. Sérelókë soothed him with kisses to thighs and belly before springing up lightly from the bed and wiping himself down with the scented water from the washbin. Swiftly did he dress, and Iaun cursed his ability to make himself so well-groomed so quickly.

“Do not despair, Iaun,” Sérelókë said with a crooked smile. “I shall be in nearly as desperate a state as you if I think too long upon the sounds you will make when you can be released at last. Fortunately we shall be distracted by learning the ways of this place. This shall not be the last time we must subdue our lust for the sake of diplomacy.”

“I do understand that,” Iaun said, sitting up and willing his risen spear to settle, attempting to ply it with cool water. Placidly he stood, shivering but a little as Sérelókë chose clothes for him from the folded offerings, straightening lines of unfamiliar rich fabrics at his hips and shoulders, fastening exquisite metalwork clasps at his chest and throat. “I am not quite as wild as you think.”

“Are you not?” Sérelókë said with an arch of his brow. “This you have earned,” he said with a warmth in his voice, handing Iaun a delicate cup of _miruvórë._

Iaun stared at it, swirled the liquid about in the cup as his body settled and his mind emerged from its haze.

Thingol it was who awaited them. Thingol who had come in time to avenge Denethor son of Lenwë, but not to save him; and would doubtless recognise that Iaun was of the Laiquendi, who took no king ever after. Strange it would seem to Iaun to bend his knee to one now. What desire he had to give fealty was now fulfilled by another, and Iaun found he still preferred the shelter of the forest to the cover of a crown.

Iaun sprang fully from the bed as his arousal changed to anxiety. He squared his shoulders and devoted himself to preparing his clothing as Sérelókë watched.

Something changed in the Maia’s gaze. With the lightest of touches, trying his best to make his work subtle, Sérelókë helped Iaun dress, bending his will to clean cloth he had only just enjoyed staining. Iaun glanced at him, full of questions, but at the last decided to ask nothing.

He relished Sérelókë’s incidental caresses with every adjustment and straightening, every tightening and lacing, and at last, time devoted to combing and rebraiding of Iaun’s long hair. “You want me at my fairest for the king’s table, my lord?” he finally managed to ask, his hand shaking slightly.

Sérelókë’s brow crinkled in puzzlement for a moment. “Your shoulders tensed and your hand began to shake when you thought of meeting Thingol,” he said. “You did not react that way to Melian or Lúthien. There is some fear or anger there, born out of the past, although you have never met face to face, I perceive. You do not want to be at a disadvantage in your appearance, so it is my pleasure to help.”

“Because I am yours?” Iaun asked.

“Yes,” Sérelókë said, “and also because you are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCORCHING HOT ILLUSTRATION by [senorasart/senorakitty](http://senorasart.tumblr.com/)!!!
> 
> [Iaun endures so beautifully. Very much NSFW](http://senorasart.tumblr.com/image/156392117992)


	10. Epilogue: The Horn of the Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort of honeymoon.

This was different, so different from the awkward camaraderie of warriors’ comforts, that which was desperate and needed in the dark of the night before battle and rarely spoken of among survivors - though still done then, the surge of relief, sorrow, and rage still unspent causing hunger in the blood that could only be assuaged by the frenzied clasp of another living body. And for Iaun it required the savage touch of a fearless lover not afraid to test his endurance and courage.

This was a slow and savoured thing that grew between them and entwined them together, revisited again and again, wide-eyed and open in the bright clear light of the new Sun and Moon. As the eyes of the people of Doriath had adjusted to the changes in the heavens and the new lights upon meadow and forest when they went out into the world, the lamps in the City of the Thousand Caves had also been turned higher and attuned to the waxing and waning of the skies, as the people wished it.

So it was often in the white-golden clarity of light that mimicked Arien’s that Iaun and Sérelókë could see each other as they danced entangled, naked in the plush-soft beds of the wealthy city of Menegroth. Iaun had still believed he could not hold his companion’s attention for long, yet there seemed no diminishment in the rapt gaze of Sérelókë’s keen, fey eyes, and no fading at all in the force of his desire. Elves were not especially lusty folk, and yet the heat in Iaun’s blood when Sérelókë came close to him still pulsed fiercely, driving him to touch, to taste, to ask for more with his eyes, and melt up into his caresses, and ever yearn for his command.

When Arien arose and filled the world with fiery radiance, all things became exposed and Iaun thought it must make everyone’s sight rather like to Sérelókë’s, in which little can be hidden for long. Golden was the awe and delight upon his face at first, though Iaun found the new light painful to look upon, and her way of sharpening the shadows too harsh, til he adjusted, and he was wont to remain in the caves until Tilion took his gentler path.

The lassitude Iaun had feared did not set in at once - Iaun wandered the halls of craftsmen and was greeted by them with great welcome; with joy he admired and began to learn the arts of smithcraft and weapon-making. To Iaun’s delight, Sérelókë gave some of his patronage to designers of clever devices and slightly adapted weapons, made especially for use in private company. 

For Sérelókë’s part, Melian had spoken true, and she gifted her kinsman with an exquisite viol. Iaun often woke to its strains in their chambers when most of the townspeople were abed, and Iaun generally minded it not, but for when its cries reflected distressed thoughts of its owner, who seemed to suffer in a web of his own making where Iaun could not reach him.

Yet Iaun’s long life in the forest still laid its claim upon him, and he often left the sanctity of Menegroth’s gates during the quiet, subtle-scented hours of Tilion’s ride, when the night flowers gave forth their sultry airs, and the fresh breath of the heavens wafted through the leaves. Free he felt with no stone around him or above him, and if he sometimes felt shamed to idle in safety while others still suffered and died far away, lessened was his guilt when Sérelókë was with him, for Iaun then felt great joy of purpose. 

Morgoth Bauglir was not quite the only Vala who still laid his touch to those lands, for in those days Oromë himself still took to the hunt in the vast forests, and though the Elves feared him they also took joy in the singing winds of his passing, when his great horn Valaróma echoed through the trees and sounded off the hillsides. Certhasath returned to them then, and Sérelókë turned to Iaun with savage joy for the game afoot, the dance of hunter and hunted .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we leave them for now, in relative peace, until the next adventure...


End file.
